
I 



THE SPIRIT OF 
FREN CH LET TERS 

MABELLS.C, SMITH 






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THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 



THE 

SPIRIT OF FRENCH 
LETTERS 



BY 

MABELL S. C. SMITH 




Efje Cfjautauqua Press 

CHAUTAUQUA, NEW YORK 
MCMXII 



r a fi 



Copyright, 191 2 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 191 2. 



|*C!.A314913 



I 



I 



PREFACE 

The purpose of this book is to give such a survey of French 
letters as will show their connection with the conditions — 
political and economic — of each period which produced them. 
This brief survey is supplemented by translated extracts of 
outstanding examples, the choice sometimes being made to 
illustrate the author's reflection of the times and sometimes 
to exhibit his spirit or his workmanship. 

Acknowledgment is made gratefully to publishers who 
have given courteous permission for reprinting, and to friends 
who have offered helpful criticisms and made translations. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Through the Winter Days and After i 

II. In Lyric Mood 14 

III. Stirrings of Democracy and The Great Awakening 39 

IV. When the Printing Press Came .... 63 
V. The Century of Beginnings — The Sixteenth . . 85 

VI. The Great Century — The Seventeenth . . .124 

VII. Drama through the Centuries 188 

VIII. The Century of Discussion — The Eighteenth . 226 

IX. The Century of Inventions — The Nineteenth . 278 

X. Today 366 

Index 369 



THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 
CHAPTER I 

THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 

When Caesar set forth to Gaul in 58 b. c. to take posses- 
sion of his proconsulate, he was by no means ignorant of the 
mettle of the people who had more than once come south- 
ward over the mountains and wrought destruction even upon 
Rome itself. Of their courage and hardihood and love of 
liberty he gained a personal knowledge during the nine years 
before he made their final conquest; of their ways of living, 
their customs, their beliefs he learned with the interest of the 
explorer and of the conqueror; and to the advantage of pos- 
terity he wrote down all that he did and all that he learned 
for seven years in the Commentaries which are our first record 
of Gallic history. 

He found the people speaking Celtic. During the suc- 
ceeding four hundred years of Roman occupation the Gauls 
came to use that mixture of classical Latin and the speech 
of the common people which was the language of the later 
Roman Empire, and which is known as Low or Vulgar Latin. 

With the fifth century came the dramatic outpouring of 
the Franks across the face of northern Europe. Like other 
peoples whose energy expresses itself in action these Teutons 
limited their conquest to the physical and made no effort to 
impose their language on the conquered. In the course of 
the next five hundred years, however, Low Latin was more 
and more superseded by a popular language which was called 



2 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Romance, and, since it differed as much from the invaders' 
German as from the tongue of its origin, was the real an- 
cestor of the French language of to-day. Of this Romance 
language an example remains in the oath by which Louis 
the German, a grandson of Charlemagne, pledged himself to 
support his brother Charles against his brother Lothair. 
The oath was sworn at Strasburg in the presence of the 
armies of Louis and of Charles in March, 842. 

Its Romance form, of great interest to students of the 
growth of language, is neither Latin nor French, yet shows 
traces of both. It stands: 

Pro Deo amur et pro Christian poblo et nostro commun salvament, 
d'ist di in avant, in quant Deus savir et podir me dunat, si salvarai eo 
cist meon fradre Karlo et in adjudha et in cadhuna cosa, si cum om per 
dreit son fradra salvar dift, in o quid il mi altresi fazet, et ab Ludher 
nul plaid nunquam prindrai, qui meon vol cist meon fradre Karlo in 
damno sit. 

In translation the oath runs: 

For the love of God and for the common salvation of the Christian 
people and ourselves, from this day on, in so far as God grants me to 
know and to be able, I shall support this my brother Charles, both by 
aid and in all else as one ought by right to support his brother, provided 
he shall do the same for me, and I shall never enter into a bond with 
Lothair which, of my will, shall be a harm to Charles. 

The Romance language had many dialects. Spain and 
Italy made their impress upon it, and, within the boundaries 
of France, there were as many differences as there were large 
sections separated from each other by hill and morass, and 
by many a mile to be travelled wearily in those days. These 
French dialects, however, submit to a rough grouping, for 
those which belong south of the river Loire used"oc" for 
"oui" ("y es ")> and those north of that dividing stream em- 
ployed " oil " for " oui," and so the language of the south came 
to be called the Langue d'oc (Tongue of oc) while that of the 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 3 

north was called the Langue d/oil. By the end of the twelfth 
century it was clear that the northern dialect spoken in the 
lie de France — the district around Paris — was destined to 
be the French of the future. 

Yet the alchemy of speech was to work many variations 
before the language crystallized into anything like the form 
it wears to-day. Romance was in a state of constant flux. 
When the twelfth century began, certain changes seem to 
have fixed themselves in the tongue so definitely that it may 
be considered to have passed into a new stage. This stage is 
called Old French. After three centuries more another era 
had become sufficiently marked for students to consider the 
fifteenth century as the beginning of the use of Modern 
French. 

The early invaders from the north, a youthful race, press- 
ing south and west in a mad and joyous fury, brought to their 
advance the destructiveness of the young. Where the 
Romans had built roads and cities, palaces and public utili- 
ties, there the barbarians found the chosen outlet for their 
cruel energy. A lust of destruction was on them. Towns 
equipped for such fair living as that period knew were 
stormed and captured, churches were burned, aqueducts 
broken, rivers and harbors made unnavigable, commerce 
killed. Even in the comparative calm that followed the 
first onslaught there was everywhere the seething unrest of 
a life where every man was on the alert to defend his own 
possessions, and there was no understanding of unity and of 
what unity might accomplish. Chiefs won to power by 
murder, and the law of violence allowed no law of justice. 

In the eighth century the Saracens crossed the Pyrenees 
and brought new destruction until the mighty battle hammer 
of Charles Martel beat them down on the field of Tours. 

Charlemagne (768), grandson of the hammer wielder, 
dreamed of a splendid empire and of a united people, and he 



4 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

did his best to bring peace by the sword and to convert to 
Christianity by bloodshed and by bribes. His methods were 
those of his time; his ideas ran far ahead of it. After his 
death his domain fell apart, such centralization as he had 
brought about giving way to feudalism which was based on 
landholding conditions Roman in origin, combined with the 
Teutonic military democracy that granted power to the 
many provided they were strong enough to win it and to 
keep it. The Strasburg oath in which Charlemagne's 
grandson Louis swore to support his brother Charles was 
the forerunner of a treaty by which the great king's empire 
was divided, Louis taking Germany, Charles France, and 
Lothair Italy. France was far from being a political unit 
and though Charles had a royal title he had little more power 
than any one of the twenty-eight dukes and counts who were 
his vassals in name, but who governed their sections of the 
country despotically and with small reference to his wishes. 

Some forty years later the crowns of Germany, France, 
and Italy were united again when Charles the Fat came to 
the throne, but France itself was always more and more 
subdivided. Into this group of separate feudal states dashed 
Rollo the Northman (in 885) and once more the land was 
burned and harried and its people given over to slaughter. 
Paris itself was besieged for a year and a half, though it 
stood unfallen, and was ready, a little later when the North- 
men had become useful settlers in the land of their invasion, 
to contend for supremacy with Laon, the capital of the 
Carlovingians, the Kings descended from Charlemagne. 
Paris and the feudal lords conquered when (in 987) Hugh 
Capet, Count of Paris, was chosen King. With him began 
the real Kingdom of France, though "France" still meant 
only a small district around Paris plus the fidelity of a very 
few important vassals. 

Of cruel temper were these centuries from the fifth to the 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 5 

tenth, yet considered in their relation to the centuries that 
followed, they may be likened to the winter time, when 
nature is conserving her forces for the work of the spring and 
the summer and the autumn — for germination and blossom- 
ing and fruitage. 

"0, wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? " 

Piercing the gloom of the winter days was an occasional 
ray of light. In the monasteries glimmered a spark of the 
old tradition and a knowledge of ancient tongues which, like 
the never-extinguished flame of the Vestal Virgins, kept alive 
from ancient days the continuity of literature.* Charlemagne, 
illiterate, intelligent, constructive, built as vigorously as he 
fought, and esteemed letters and men of learning with the 
admiration of the sagacious unlearned. In the marauders 
themselves, Franks and Normans, was a curiosity, irresponsi- 
ble, vigorous and charged with a savage good-temper when 
unthwarted, that proved fuel for a new literary blaze w T hen 
the fury of destroying had exhausted itself. Of increasing 
strength, too, was the religious influence that converted the 
barbarians to the belief of the people among whom they were 
settling — the influence that was to sweep them with the rest 
of Europe into the Crusades, with all that they meant of the 
instruction that comes from contact with a past of abundant 
richness. 

Though the stormy advent of the Teutons made almost 
no impression on the language of the country they invaded, 
yet some of their customs caught the fancy of the people 
with whom they fought and among whom they lived. One 
habit which pleased the western folk was their singing of 
tumultuous songs which cheered the onrushing troops or 
made them forget their weariness around the campfire, with 
chanted tales of the valorous deeds of mythical heroes and of 

* See selection from Guizot in Chapter IX. 



6 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

actual warriors. The French began to compose something 
like this epic poetry in the short popular songs which they 
called Cantilenes. The oldest existing bit of verse of this 
sort is also the oldest remaining poem in the Langue d'oil. 
It is attributed to about the year 880, and is called 

CANTILENE OF ST. EULALIE * 

Eulalie was a young and virgin maid 

Her body lovely, soul more lovely still. 

To conquer her the foes of God essayed 

And strove to make her serve their evil will; 

But to these counsels bad she gave no heed, 

To forsake God who dwells in Heaven on high, 

No dresses fine nor gold nor silver meed 

Nor prayer nor threat of king could make comply 

This child, with their demands the service to forsake 

Of God who reigns o'er all the earth and sky. 

Before Maximian Eulalie did they take, 

King of the Pagans, who did sternly try 

To force her to renounce the Christian name; 

But ere do this she willingly would die, 

And rather than give up her virgin fame, 

She tortures did endure right willingly, 

And thus an honest death she soon did win. 

They cast her in a great and blazing fire, 

Yet burned she not for she was free from sin: 

This marvel nowise slaked the pagan's ire 

Who for a keen-edged sword did quickly call 

And smote her head off. She no plaint did say; 

Since Christ so willed feared she not death at all 

And like a dove to Heaven she winged her way. 

We beg that she for us will deign to pray 

That when we die, through Christ's great clemency 

Our souls to him likewise may take their way. 

From songs like this, appealing to the popular ear and 
readily memorized, the Chansons de Geste (Songs of Action) 
were an easy development. Beginning with some burst of 

• Translated by J. Ravenel Smith 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 7 

description or of praise sung by accredited bards in times of 
war, they grew, generation by generation, to be of a length 
suitable only to be sung at the fireside when the audience 
had plenty of time to listen. The singer, too, changed with 
the centuries. At first he was the minstrel-w^arrior who 
shouted his song as he charged with his brother fighters. 
Such a leader was Taillefer who is described by the chronicler 
Wace as advancing against the English at the battle of Hast- 
ings (1066) which won England for William of Normandy. 

Taillefer, who sang very well, 
On a horse that ran swiftly, 
Went before the duke singing 
Of Charlemagne and of Roland, 
Of Oliver and of the vassals 
Who died at Roncesvalles. 

In the north the poets were called trouveres, in the south, 
troubadours. Often they were of noble birth. As the life of 
the people altered, however, from that of rovers in the open 
to that of town- and castle-dwellers the man of martial deeds 
and song of the early days became the wandering musician 
dependent upon the whims of some baron. In his hall he 
spent the long summer months, each evening adding a new 
chapter to the adventures of his hero, and, in later days when 
his occupation had fallen into disrepute, injecting variety 
into his entertainment by feats of jugglery. 

Under three general heads come the subjects of the trou- 
vere's mercilessly long chansons: tales of Charlemagne and 
his paladins, in which there was some seed of historic truth, 
since the great king's day was not so long gone by that fact 
had turned to fable in the telling; tales of Arthur and the 
Knights of the Round Table, based on the Welsh and Breton 
legends which have given inspiration to poets from Chrestien 
de Troyes to Tennyson; and tales presenting in new form the 
traditions of Greece and Rome which had persisted through 



8 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

changes of language and of racial thought into a time and 
among a people of far different spirit. Enraptured by these 
popular themes all western Europe from the eleventh to the 
fourteenth centuries came under the spell of the Chanson de 
Geste as France sang it and heard it. France led the literary 
world. 

Of the many poems of action of these vigorous years the 
best beloved was the Song of Roland, built up in the eleventh 
century to a length of 4200 lines and attributed to one 
Turoldus. It is this song, though undoubtedly a short 
version or an extract, that Taillefer sang at Hastings, cheer- 
ing on the Normans to equal the valor of the mightiest hero 
of their land. The first section tells of the embassy sent to 
Charlemagne by the Saracen, Marsile, who holds Saragossa, 
the only town unconquered by the emperor at the end of 
seven years of warfare in Spain. Charlemagne knows that 
his men are eager to return home and he decides to accept 
the proposals looking toward peace, although his nephew, 
Roland, urges him to refuse them. Roland brings on himself 
the enmity of his step-father, Ganelon, by suggesting that he 
undertake the return embassy, which is considered danger- 
ous. Ganelon arranges with Marsile the betrayal of Charle- 
magne and induces the emperor to withdraw from the country . 

He departs, according to the account of the second section, 
leaving Roland in command of the rearguard, and with him 
his dear friend Oliver, to whose sister, Aude, he is betrothed, 
and Turpin, the Archbishop. 

As Roland and his men march through the Pass of Ron- 
cesvalles the blare of the Moorish clarions is borne to them 
on the wind. 

* Says Olivier: 

"Rolland, companion, hearken! Soon, methinks, 

"We shall have battle with the Saracens!" 

* Reprinted by permission from Chanson de Roland; translated by Leonce Rabillon. 
Copyright, 1885, by Henry Holt and Company. 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 

To which Rolland: "God grant it may be so. 

"Here must we do our duty to our King; 

"A man should for his Lord and for his cause 

"Distress endure, and bear great heat and cold, 

"Lose all, even to his very hair and skin! 

" 'Tis each man's part to strike with mighty blows, 

"That evil songs of us may ne'er be sung. 

"The wrong cause have the Pagans, we the right. 

"No ill example e'er shall come from me." 

Aoi. 



Count Olivier is posted on a hill 

From whence Spain's Kingdom he descries, and all 

The swarming host of Saracens; their helms 

So bright bedecked with gold, and their great shields, 

Their 'broidered hauberks, and their waving flags, 

He cannot count the squadrons; in such crowds 

They come, his sight reached not unto their end. 

Then all bewildered he descends the hill, 

Rejoins the French, and all to them relates. 

Aoi. 

Olivier said: "So strong the Pagan host; 
"Our French, methinks, in number are too few; 
"Companion Rolland, sound your horn, that Carle 
"May hear and send his army back to help." 
Rolland replies: — "Great folly would be mine, 
"And all my glory in sweet France be lost. 
"No, I shall strike great blows with Durendal; 
"To the golden hilt the blade shall reek with blood. 
"In evil hour the felon Pagans came 
"Unto the Pass, for all are doomed to die!" 

Aoi. 

The Archbishop blesses the French, and they plunge into 
awful hand-to-hand combat with valiant foes who outnumber 
them many hundred times. In four charges the French were 
victorious; in the fifth they met a cruel fate. With almost all 
of his companions lying slain about him Roland decides at 
last to sound his horn. 



io THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Rolland savs: — "I will blow mine olifant, 
"And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge 
"My word the French at once retrace their steps." 
Said Olivier: — "This a great shame would be, 
"One which to all your kindred would bequeathe 
"A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you, 
"You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now 
"With my consent you shall not; — if you blow 
"Your horn, of valor true you show no proof. 
"Already, both your arms are drenched with blood." 
Responds the Count: — "These arms have nobly struck." 

Aoi. 

The Archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives 

Into his horse his spurs of purest gold, 

And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them, 

Says: — "Sire Rolland, and you, Sire Olivier, 

"In God's name be no feud between you two; 

"No more your horn shall save us; nathless 'twere 

"Far better Carle should come and soon avenge 

"Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes 

"Would not return. But as our Franks alight, 

"Find us or slain or mangled on the field, 

"They will our bodies on their chargers' backs 

"Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all 

"In tears, and bury us in holy ground: 

"And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed 

"On us — " Replies Rolland: — "Well have you said." 

The Count Rolland in his great anguish blows 

His olifant so mightily, with such 

Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth 

The crimson blood, and his swoll'n temples burst. 

Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds; 

Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks, 

The French all listen with attentive ear. 

"That is Rolland's horn! " Carle cried, "which ne'er yet 

"Was, save in battle, blown! — " 

Charlemagne gives orders for a return and rescue. Mean- 
while the fight continues. Oliver, wounded unto death, 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER II 

mistakes his friend for one of the enemy and strikes a blow 
that cleaves his crest, yet Roland pardons him and swoons 
with grief as Oliver lies dead before him. Recovering and 
fighting on Roland blows another blast. 

As hero fights the Count Rolland; but all 

His body burns with heat and drips with sweat; 

His head is torn by pain; his temple burst 

By that strong blast he gave the olifant. 

Still would he know if Carle returns; once more 

He blows his horn — Alas, with feeble blast. 

Carle caught the distant sound, and, list'ning, waits: 

"Seigneurs," cried he, "great evils fall apace; 

"I hear his dying blast upon his horn. 

"If we would find him yet alive, we need 

"Urge on our steeds. Let all our trumpets blow!" 

Then sixty thousand trumps rang forth their peals; 

The hills reecho, and the vales respond. 

The Pagans hear — and stay their gabbling mirth. 

One to the other says: — " 'Tis Carle who comes!" 

Aoi. 

Roland's horse is killed under him and Turpin is wounded. 
The Count gathers the bodies of his comrades around the 
Archbishop who gives them his benediction before joining 
them in the world beyond. While himself awaiting the ap- 
proach of death Roland is attacked by a Saracen who tries 
to take from him his sword, Durendal. With desperate 
strength the dying knight fells the robber with his horn, and 
then makes a determined effort to break his weapon that it 
may fall into no other hands. 

Now feels Rolland that death is near at hand 

And struggles up with all his force; his face 

Grows livid; — [Durendal, his naked sword] 

He holds; — beside him rises a grey rock 

On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief 

And rage — The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor 

Is notched; then cries the Count: — "Saint Mary, help! 

"O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou! 



12 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Though we two part, I care not less for thee. 

"What victories together thou and I, 

"Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds 

"'White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp 

"Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, 

"Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!" 

Aoi. 
Rolland smites hard the rock of Sardonix; 
The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt; 
Then seeing that he cannot break his sword, 
Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal: 
"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against 
"The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects! 
"When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane, 
"The God of Heaven by his Angel sent 
"Command that he should give thee to a Count, 
"A valiant captain; it was then the great 
"And gentle King did gird thee to my side. — " 

Upon the grey rock mightily he smites, 

Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword 

But grinds. — It breaks not — nor receives a notch, 

And upwards springs more dazzling in the air. 

When sees the Count Rolland his sword can never break, 

Softly within himself its fate he mourns: 

"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou! 

"In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth 

"Of great Saint Pierre — some blood of Saint Basile, 

"A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis, 

"A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie. 

"It is not right that Pagans should own thee; 

"By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms 

"I shall have conquered once that now are ruled 

" By Carle, the King with beard all blossom- white, 

"And by them made great emperor and Lord. 

"May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand." 

Aoi. 

The Count Rolland feels through his limbs the grasp 

Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart 

A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine 

He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass. 



THROUGH THE WINTER DAYS AND AFTER 13 

Beneath him lie his sword and olifant, 

And toward the Heathen land he turns his head, 

That Carle and all his knightly host may say: 

"The gentle Count a conqueror has died. . . ." 

Then asking pardon for his sins, or great 

Or small, he offers up his glove to God. 

With the death of the hero the third section ends. The 
fourth tells of Charlemagne's return to find his rearguard 
utterly destroyed. In a fearful battle he takes vengeance 
upon the foe, and storms Saragossa. Then he turns once 
more toward France. 

From Spain at last the Emperor has returned 

To Aix, the noblest seat of France; ascends 

His palace, enters in the stately hall, — 

Now comes to greet him the fair [lady] Aude, 

And asks the King: — "Where is Rolland the chief 

"Who pledged his faith to take me for his wife?" 

Sore-pained, heart-broken, Carle, with weeping eyes, 

Tears his white beard. — "Ah! sister well beloved, 

"Thou askest me of one who is no more. 

"A worthier match I give thee in exchange; 

"Loewis it is. I cannot better say. 

"He is my son, and will protect my realms." 

Aude answers: — "To my ear these words are strange. 

"May God, His saints, His angels, all forfend 

"That, if Rolland lives not, I still should live." 

Her color fades, she falls prone at the feet 

Of Charlemagne — dead . . . God's mercy on her soul! 

Barons of France mourn her with pitying tears. 

Aoi. 

How Ganelon the traitor was captured, tried, and punished 
is the theme of the fifth section that ends the Song of Roland. 

Dignified and beautiful in expression, charged with an 
elevated spirit of enduring courage and loyalty, and telling 
the story of a friendship that has become famous in history 
this chanson must be placed not among historical curiosities 
but in the ranks of real literature. 



CHAPTER II 
IN LYRIC MOOD 

At the same time that legends of antiquity and long ac- 
counts of the deeds of heroes were pleasing a people whose 
standards were those of successful fighting, feudalism was 
nursing ideals of loyalty and devotion, of truth-telling and 
of respect for women, which were applicable to everyday life. 
Now everyday life is divided into twenty-four hour periods 
whose active part is shortened by some seven or eight hours 
of slumberous inactivity. That is, living is a succession of 
experiences of the waking day, a succession of brief experi- 
ences. In correspondence with this view the poetic expres- 
sion of everyday life is not sustained, as in the epic, but is 
brief, and thus is born lyric verse to give utterance to a cry 
of affection, a shout of victory, a plea for courage, a declara- 
tion of belief. The emotions cannot be kept at a high tension 
for a long time — the song must be sung at a burst. 

The joy of picturing life and its everyday feelings and in- 
cidents in lyric verse was entered upon early by the trouveres 
in the north and the troubadours in the south. Perhaps it 
was a reaction from the suffering and dread of the preceding 
years that made the poets of the centuries immediately 
following that time of welcome surprise tell short stories of 
love and romance and compose short poems, gay or sorrowful 
in spirit, concise in workmanship. In the twelfth century 
the productions of the north and the south are distinguishable 
from each other in tone, the trouveres composing songs of 
occupations — the spinner's song, the shepherd's song: — or 
romantic tales recited to amuse the workers as they toiled, 

14 



IN LYRIC MOOD 15 

while the troubadours showed their southern ardor in those 
songs of love which bespoke a lady's favor or argued about 
the quantity and the quality of the passion. A hundred years 
later the Teutonic and the Roman strains were becoming 
united, north and south had met in the Crusades, and com- 
mon interests produced a more uniform verse. 

Not alike, however, were the poets themselves, for men 
of all classes from king to page, burned with the divine 
fire. 

Among the trouveres Thibaut IV, King of Navarre (1201- 
1253), wrote with precision and elegance himself and gathered 
about him a group of friends of like tastes. The verses below, 
composed as he set out upon a crusade, show that there were 
drawbacks even to war's enthusiasms. 

* Lady, the fates command and I must go, — 

Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me: 
Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe; 

But what is left to love, thus leaving thee? 
Alas! that cruel land beyond the sea! 

Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, 
Never again from pain and sorrow free, 

Never again to meet when thus they part? 

I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, 

How wealth or joy or peace can be my lot; 
Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve 

As now in leaving thee; and if thy thought 
Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught, 

Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, 
Dwelling in fruitless wishes on this spot, 

And all the gracious words here said to me. 

O gracious God, to thee I bend my knee, 
For thy sake yielding all I love and prize; 

And O, how mighty must that influence be, 

That steals me thus from all my cherished joys! 
* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



16 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Here, ready, then, myself surrendering, 
Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne'er 

To one so faithful could I service bring, 
So kind a master, so beloved and dear. 

And strong my ties, my grief unspeakable! 

Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign; 
Yet stronger still the affections that impel 

My heart toward Him, the God whose love is mine. 
That holy love, how beautiful! how strong! 

Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge there; 
'Tis the redeeming gem that shines among 

Men's darkest thoughts, — for ever bright and fair. 

Raoul, Comte de Soissons, a friend of Thibaut's, wrote 
the following lines when he, too, probably, was about to bid 
farewell to the lady of his admiration : 

* Ah ! beauteous maid 

Of form so fair! 
Pearl of the world, 
Beloved and dear! 
How does my spirit eager pine 
But once to press those lips of thine! — 
Yes, beauteous maid, 

Of form so fair! 
Pearl of the world, 
Beloved and dear. 

And if the theft 

Thine ire awake, 
A hundred fold 

I'd give it back, — 
Thou beauteous maid, 

Of form so fair! 
Pearl of the world, 

Beloved and dear. 

Adam de la Halle (who died in 1286), a dramatist as 
well as a lyric poet, was an untitled follower of Robert II, 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



IN LYRIC MOOD 17 

Count of Artois. The poem quoted here is a variation from 
his usual vein of happy compliment. As he wore the nick- 
name of "The Hunchback of Arras/' he probably felt toward 
it the mixed emotions that he records in his song. 

FAREWELL TO ARRAS 

(Translated by Henry Carrington. Courtesy of the Oxford Press) 

Arras! Arras! town full of strife, 
With calumnies and hatred rife; 
You were a noble town of yore; 
Your fame, 'tis said, they will restore. 
But unless God your manners mend, 
I see not who'll effect this end; 
Gambling is all that you pursue, 
So, fifty thousand times adieu. 

Elsewhere the gospel I shall find; 
I leave your lying tongues behind. 

Love, and glad life, I bid farewell, 
Where do such mirth and pleasure dwell, 
As save in Paradise unknown 
To me you have some profit done; 
In studying once you made me slack, 
But now 'tis you that bring me back, 
'Tis you that make me now desire 
Honour to gain, renown acquire; 
For rude and empty was my mind, 
Discourteous, base, and unrefined. 

My tender friend, much loved and dear, 
I feel and show but little cheer; 
Deeply on your account I grieve, 
Whom I am forced behind to leave. 
You will be treasurer of my heart, 
Although my body must depart 
Learning and science to attain, 
And be more worth, so you shall gain. 

In the south the large groups of troubadours included the 
picturesque figure of Richard the Lion Hearted (1157- 



1 8 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

1 199), King of England and vassal of the French King by 
virtue of his holdings in France. Richard composed spirited 
and correct verse in the langue d'oc, far better than that of 
his faithful minstrel, Blondel de Nesle (1193), who, the 
story goes, sang his way through Austria until an answering 
voice betrayed the prison in which Richard lay, hidden by 
his enemies and forgotten by his friends. Here is the King's 
lament over his friends' inactivity: 

* Richard, Coeur de Lion — in prison 
No captive knight, whom chains confine, 
Can tell his fate and not repine; 
Yet with a song he cheers the gloom 
That hangs around his living tomb. 
Shame to his friends! — the King remains 
Two years unransomed and in chains. 

Now let them know, my brave barons, 
English, Normans, and Gascones 
Not a liege-man so poor have I 
That I would not his freedom buy, 
I will not reproach their noble line, 
But chains and dungeon still are mine. 

The dead, — nor friends nor kin have they! 

Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay! 

My wrongs afflict me, — yet far more 

For faithless friends my heart is sore. 

O, what a blot upon their name, 

If I should perish thus in shame! 

Nor is it strange I suffer pain, 

When sacred oaths are thus made vain, 

And when the king with bloody hands 

Spreads war and pillage thro' my lands, 

One only solace now remains, — 

I soon. shall burst these servile chains. 

Ye Troubadours and friends of mine, 
Brave Chail, and noble Pensauvine, 

* From Longfellow's " Poetry of Europe." 



IN LYRIC MOOD 19 

Go, tell my rivals, in your song, 

This heart hath never done them wrong. 

He infamy — not glory — gains, 

Who strikes a monarch in his chains. 

Less humble than Blondel both in birth and in character 
was Bertrand de Born (1 150-12 10), an intimate friend of 
Richard and the lover of his sister, Eleanor. De Born was 
a tempestuous spirit and a versatile. He incited Richard 
and his brothers to rebel against their father, Henry II of 
England, yet when Henry captured him he won his release by 
offering the audacious argument that he was the best friend 
of the unfilial sons. He was fierce in love and hate and Dante 
gives him a horrible punishment in the "Inferno," yet his 
tastes were not entirely ungentle. He wrote much verse and 
wrote it well in a strong, swinging rhythm. Here are some 
lines in which his frankness declares him to be of no passive 
disposition. 

* The beautiful spring delights me well, 
When flowers and leaves are growing; 

And it pleases my heart to hear the swell 
Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing 
In the echoing wood. 

And I love to see all scattered around 

Pavilions, tents, on the martial ground; 
And my spirit finds it good 

To see on the level plains beyond, 

Gay knights and steeds caparisoned. 

It pleases me when the lancers bold 

Set men and armies flying; 
And it pleases me, too, to hear around, 
The voice of the soldiers crying; 
And joy is mine, 
When the castles strong, besieged, shake, 
And walls uprooted, totter and crack; 
And I see the foemen join, 

* Translation by Edgar Taylor. 



20 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

On the moated shore all compassed round 
With the palisade and guarded mound. 

Lances and swords'*and stained helms, 

And shields, dismantled and broken, 
On the verge of the bloody battle-scene, 

The field of wrath betoken; 
And the vassals are there, 
And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead, 
And where the mingled strife is spread, 

The noblest warrior's care 
Is to cleave the foeman's limbs and head, — 
The conqueror less of the living than dead. 

I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer, 

Or banqueting or reposing, 
Like the onset cry of " Charge them!" rung 

From each side as in battle closing, 
Where the horses neigh, 
And the call to "Aid!" is echoing loud; 
And there on the earth the lowly and proud 

In the fosse together lie. 
And yonder is piled the mangled heap 
Of the brave that scaled the trench's steep. 

Barons, your castles in safety place, 

Your cities and villages too, 
Before ye haste to the battle-scenes! 

And, Papiol, quickly go, 

And tell the Lord of "Oc and No" * 
That peace already too long hath been. 

Another friend of Richard's, and a less harmful adviser, 
was Pierre Vidal (about 12 15), who followed the Lion 
Heart to the Holy Land. Vidal was a nature lover as well as 
a fighter. He sang: 

t Of all sweet birds I love the most 

The lark and nightingale; 
For they the first of all awake, 

The opening spring with songs to hail. 

* Richard "Yea and Nay," the Lion Hearted, 
f From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



IN LYRIC MOOD 21 

And I, like them, when silently 

Each Troubadour sleeps on, 
Will wake me up and sing of love 

And thee, Vierna, fairest one. 

The rose on thee its bloom bestowed, 

The lily gave its white, 
And nature, when it planned thy form, 

A model framed of fair and bright. 

For nothing, sure, that could be given, 

To thee hath been denied; 
That there each thought of love and joy 

In bright perfection might reside. 

When succeeding crusades were fulfilling the debasing 
promise of the Third, which Richard led, Peyrols (1145- 
1200), a southern poet, praised the earlier days and the 
leaders of the earlier Holy wars, gone like "the snows of 
yester year." The troubadour says in 

A CRUSADER'S SONG 

(Translated by T. Roscoe) 
I have seen the Jordan river, 

I have seen the holy grave; 
Lord, to thee my thanks I render, 

For the joys Thy goodness gave, 
Showing to my raptured sight 
Where Thou first didst see the light. 

Vessel good, and favouring breezes, 

Pilot trusty, soon shall we 
See again the towers of Marseilles 

Rising o'er the briny sea. 
Farewell, Acre! farewell, all 
Of Temple or of Hospital! 

Now, alas! the world's decaying! 

When shall we again behold 
Kings like lion-hearted Richard, 

France's monarch, stout and bold, 
Montserrat's good Marquis, or 
The Empire's glorious Emperor? 



22 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Ah! Lord God, if You believed me 
You would pause in granting powers 

Over cities, kingdoms, empires, 
Over castles, towns, and towers, 

For the men that powerful be 

Pay the least regard to Thee! 

Possibly because he shows strongly the Italian influence 
which crept over the border and into the music of the trou- 
badours, Arnaud Daniel has been mentioned as the leader 
among the Provencal poets by no less authorities than 
Petrarch and Dante and Ariosto. Love was the absorbing 
theme of the poets of the south, the love that expressed itself 
in the Courts of Love, and in the lyrics that strove for honors 
in the Floral Games where the prize winner was crowned 
with flowers — and the prince of the poets of love was Arnaud 
Daniel. 

* When leaves and flowers are newly springing, 

And trees and boughs are budding all, 
In every grove when birds are singing, 
And on the balmy air is ringing 

The march's speckled tenants' call; 
Ah! then I think how small the gain 

Love's leaves and flowers and fruit may be, 
And all night long I mourn in vain, 

Whilst others sleep, from sorrow free. 

If I dare tell! — if sighs could move her! 

How my heart welcomes every smile! 
My Fairest Hope! I live to love her, 

Yet she is cold or coy the while, 
Go thou my song, and thus reprove her. 

And tell her Arnaud breathes alone 

To call so bright a prize his own! 

Belonging like Daniel to the last part of the twelfth century 
is Bernard de Ventadour, a page who adopted the name 
of the family whom he served. His songs are musical and 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



IN LYRIC MOOD 23 

flowing and touched with the poet's sadness, which in his 
case was not assumed, as he loved in vain a lady of high 
station. 

* When I behold the lark upspring 
To meet the bright sun joyfully, 
How he forgets to poise his wing, 

In his gay spirit's revelry, — 
Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring 

E'en from that happy songster's glee! 
Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring 
Not joy, but pining care, to me! 

I thought my heart had known the whole 

Of love, but small its knowledge proved; 
For still the more my longing soul 

Loves on, itself the while unloved; 
She stole my heart, myself she stole, 

And all I prized from me removed; 
She left me but the fierce control 

Of vain desires for her I loved. 

All self-command is now gone by, 

E'er since the luckless hour when she 
Became a mirror to my eye, 

Whereon I gazed complacently; 
Thou fatal mirror! there I spy 

Love's image; and my doom shall be, 
Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh, 

And thus expire, beholding thee! 

A study of these early lyrics is especially rewarding in the 
revelation that it makes of the early appearance in Gallic 
letters of characteristics which are peculiar to the French 
to-day. At an early time poets were talking about Love and 
Power and Self-control in ways that foreshadowed on the one 
hand, the metaphysical discussions of abstract principles, 
which Frenchmen thoroughly enjoy, and, on the other, the 
serious mood that enriched later centuries with the moral 
reflections of the "meditative" poets and essayists. Against 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



24 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

this sober background the penetrating wit and satire which 
have never died out from France flash and dart like lightning 
shafts; against it beams steadily chivalrous love which adored 
from afar and which to-day takes the form of a cult of the 
"beau sexe"; against it plays the love of country which the 
crusades fostered by bringing strange men together in strange 
lands where home seemed precious because far away. 

Modern in feeling, too, was the craftsmanship that always 
has distinguished the Frenchman, whether artisan or artist. 
No trouble is too great, no time too long to spend in securing 
perfection. That is why French literature, though not so 
rich in eminent names as is the roster of English writers, is 
more even in its mass of talent-showing production. 

The origin of the different verse forms which marked the 
early lyrics lay in the different purposes for which they were 
composed. The pastoral song must not be confused either 
in sound or sense with the rondeau which accompanied a 
dance or the serenade that soothed a lady's slumbers. The 
rhythm of a new dance developed a new metre and a new 
arrangement of strophes. The poet delighted in binding 
himself by rules which called for a plan of ever increasing 
intricacy. The ten- or twenty-fold repetition of identical 
"assonances" which marked the early epics gave way to a 
more generous variety of rhymes. 

Of the many forms devised by the ingenuity of the poet 
craftsmen the rondel or rondeau was one of the earliest and 
was also the parent of several variations. One of these was 
the triolet. Its rules are simple and the form is short and so 
will serve as an example of the carefulness with which these 
lyrics were constructed. The quotation is from Guillaume 
de Machault (about 1284-1369), who sang of love's delights 
and woes. He wrote in the fourteenth century, but as the 
triolet form has remained unchanged down to the twentieth 
century the date is immaterial. 



IN LYRIC MOOD 25 

When a man of more than middle age Machault became 
the recipient of tender attentions from the young Princess 
Agnes of Navarre, who wanted her name to go down the 
ages linked with that of the most popular poet of her day. 
Machault addressed to her the following 

TRIOLET 

White as a lily, as a rose, red, 
Glowing like stones of the East; 
Adoring the beauty of your dear head 
(White as a lily, as a rose, red), 
I am so ravished my heart is led 
To serve you with love's richest feast. 
White as a lily, as a rose, red, 
Glowing like stones of the East. 

It takes but a glance to analyze this little poem. There 
are but two rhymes which are stated at once in lines one and 
two. Line three rhymes with one, line four is a repetition, 
usually verbatim, of one. Line five, again, rhymes with one, 
line six with two, seven and eight repeat one and two. There 
is but the one stanza, and the form never varies. 

The ballade was another form which gave birth to varia- 
tions. From it developed in the fourteenth and fifteenth 
centuries the chant royal, a long poem in stilted language. 
When the poem was composed in honor of the Virgin Mary 
it was shorter and was called a serventois. This form lacked 
the refrain which marks the ballade as written by the prince 
of ballad makers, Villon. He, too, belongs to a period later 
than that covered by this chapter, but his ballades are of an 
excellence which compels the choice of an illustration to be 
made from them. Dante Gabriel Rossetti translated the 
famous 

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LADIES 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 
Lady Flora the lovely Roman? 



26 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 

Neither of them the fairer woman? 
Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 

Only heard on river and mere, — 
She whose beauty was more than human? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, 

For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, 
Lost manhood and put priesthood on? 

(From love he won such dule and teen! ) 
And where, I pray you, is the Queen, 

Who willed that Buridan should steer 
Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 

With a voice like any mermaiden, — 
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 

And Ermengarde, the lady of Maine, 
And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
Mother of God, where are they then? 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 

Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 
Except with this for an overword, — 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

Although the virelai belongs to the fourteenth and fifteenth 
century, it must be mentioned in this glance at special forms. 
It was a rustic dance song and was made up of a succession 
of the shepherdess's songs called bergerettes. Froissart light- 
ened his more serious historical labors by composing this 

VIRELAI 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

Too long it seems ere I shall view 
The maid so gentle, fair, and true, 
Whom loyally I love: 



IN LYRIC MOOD 27 

Ah ! for her sake, where'er I rove, 
All scenes my care renew! 
I have not seen her, — ah, how long! 
Nor heard the music of her tongue; 
Though in her sweet and lovely mien 
Such grace, such witchery is seen, 

Such precious virtues shine: 
My J ov > m y hope, is in her smile, 
And I must suffer pain the while, 

Where once all bliss was mine, 
Too long it seems ! 

O tell her, love! — the truth reveal, 
Say that no lover yet could feel 

Such sad, consuming pain: 
While banished from her sight, I pine, 
And still this wretched life is mine, 

Till I return again. 
She must believe me, for I find 
So much her image haunts my mind, 

So dear her memory, 
That, wheresoe'er my steps I bend, 
The form my fondest thoughts attend 

Is present to my eye, 
Too long it seems! 

Now tears my weary hours employ, 
Regret and thoughts of sad annoy, 

When waking or in sleep; 
For hope my former care repaid, 
In promises at parting made, 

Which happy love might keep. 
O, for one hour my truth to tell, 
To speak of feelings known too well, 

Of hopes too vainly dear! 
But useless are my anxious sighs, 
Since fortune my return denies, 

And keeps me lingering here, 
Too long it seems! 

Another late form, originating in the latter half of the 



28 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

sixteenth century was the vilanelle, an imitation of the rustic 
songs of earlier days. Du Bellay (1550) wrote a 

*HYMN TO THE WINDS 

The winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn 

To you, troop so fleet, 

That with winged wandering feet 

Through the wide world pass, 
And with soft murmuring 
Toss the green shades of spring 

In woods and grass, 
Lily and violet 
I give, and blossoms wet, 

Roses and dew; 
This branch of blushing roses, 
Whose fresh bud uncloses, 

Wind-flowers too. 
Ah, winnow with sweet breath, 
Winnow the holt and heath, 

Round this retreat; 
Where all the golden morn 
We fan the gold o' the corn, 

In the sun's heat. 

The sonnet, never widely varied, has been through the 
centuries a favorite form for the expression of a single emo- 
tional idea. Here is one of Ronsard's (1524), translated by 
Robert, Earl of Lytton. 

Here is the wood that freshened to her song; 

See here, the flowers that keep her footprints yet; 

Where, all alone, my saintly Augelette 
Went wandering, with her maiden thoughts, along. 

Here is the little rivulet where she stopp'd; 

And here the greenness of the grass shows where 
She lingered through it, searching here and there 

Those daisies dear, which in her breast she dropp'd. 

* Translated by Andrew Lang . 



IN LYRIC MOOD 29 

Here did she sing, and here she wept, and here 
Her smile came back; and here I seem to hear 
Those faint half-words with which my thoughts are rife; 

Here did she sit; here, child like, did she dance, 
To some vague impulse of her own romance — 
Ah, love, on all these thoughts, winds out my life. 

At the other extreme of difficulty is the sestina, a form in- 
vented by the troubadour Arnaud Daniel at the end of the 
. twelfth century. It is unrhymed and its complicated inter- 
weaving of final words was more a task for the lover of games 
than for the poet. In English Swinburne has made a fairly 
successful attempt at it. 

Rather curiously, the real adventure of the Holy Wars did 
not result in any glorious epic, the result of first hand ex- 
perience. Their recital was left to be chronicled in prose, 
while distance cast its glamor over the old stories, and min- 
strels still recited with ever-increasing verbosity and elaborate 
genealogical detail the exploits of knights who were the an- 
cestors of the listeners before them. To gratify the demand 
for long stories the lais and romances came into being. The 
new love element in the latter form possibly was suggested 
by the Greek romances with which the crusaders had become 
acquainted in the east. Of these new romances none is so 
charming, so touched with appeal, and, withal, so modern 
in action, setting, character drawing, as the chante-fable (song- 
story), credited to the twelfth century, of 

AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE 

(Translated by Andrew Lang) 

'Tis of Aucassin and Nicole te. 

Who would list to the good lay- 
Gladness of the captive grey? 
'Tis how two young lovers met, 
Aucassin and Nicolete, 
Of the pains the lover bore 
And the sorrows he outwore, 
For the goodness and the grace, 
Of his love, so fair of face. 



30 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Sweet the song, the story sweet, 
There is no man hearkens it, 
No man living 'neath the sun, 
So outwearied, so foredone, 
Sick and woful, worn and sad, 
But is healed, but is glad 
'Tis so sweet. 

So say the}'', speak they, tell they the Tale: 

How the Count Bougars de Valence made war on Count Garin de 
Biaucaire, war so great, and so marvellous, and so mortal that never a 
day dawned but alway he was there, by the gates and walls, and barriers 
of the town with a hundred knights, and ten thousand men at arms, 
horsemen and footmen: so burned he the Count's land, and spoiled his 
country, and slew his men. Now the Count Garin de Biaucaire was old 
and frail, and his good days were gone over. No heir had he, neither son 
nor daughter, save one young man only; such an one as I shall tell you. 
Aucassin was the name of the damoiseau: fair was he, goodly, and great, 
and featly fashioned of his body, and limbs. His hair was yellow, in 
little curls, his eyes blue and laughing, his face beautiful and shapely, 
his nose high and well set, and so richly seen was he in all things good, 
that in him was none evil at all. But so suddenly overtaken was he of 
Love, who is a great master, that he would not, of his will, be dubbed 
knight, nor take arms, nor follow tourneys, nor do whatsoever him be- 
seemed. Therefore his father and mother said to him; 

"Son, go take thine arms, mount thy horse, and hold thy land, and 
help thy men, for if they see thee among them, more stoutly will they 
keep in battle their lives, and lands, and thine, and mine." 

"Father," said Aucassin, "I marvel that you will be speaking. Never 
may God give me aught of my desire if I be made knight, or mount my 
horse, or face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten 
again, unless thou give me Nicolete, my true love, that I love so well." 

"Son," said the father, "this may not be. Let Nicolete go, a slave 
girl she is, out of a strange land, and the captain of this town bought her 
of the Saracens, and carried her hither, and hath reared her and let 
christen the maid, and took her for his daughter in God, and one day will 
find a young man for her, to win her bread honourably. Herein hast 
thou nought to make or mend, but if a wife thou wilt have, I will give 
thee the daughter of a King, or a Count. There is no man so rich in 
France, but if thou desire his daughter, thou shalt have her." 

"Faith! my father," said Aucassin, "tell me where is the place so 
high in all the world, that Nicolete, my sweet lady and love, would not 
grace it well? If she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, 
or Queen of France or England, it were little enough for her; so gentle 
is she and courteous, and debonaire, and compact of all good qualities." 

Here singeth one: 

Aucassin was of Biaucaire 
Of a goodly castle there, 
But from Nicolete the fair 
None might win his heart away 
Though his father, many a day, 
And his mother said him nay, 
"Ha! fond child, what wouldest thou? 
Nicolete is glad enow! 



IN LYRIC MOOD 3 1 

Was from Carthage cast away, 
Paynims sold her on a day! 
Wouldst thou win a lady fair . 
Choose a maid of high degree 
Such an one is meet for thee." 
"Nay of these I have no care, 
« Nicolete is debonaire, 

Her body sweet and the face of her 
Take my heart as in a snare, 
Loyal love is but her share 
That is so sweet." 

Then spake they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

When the Count Garin de Biaucaire knew that he would avail not 
to withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolete, he went to the 
Captain of the city, who was his man, and spake to him, saying: 

"Sir Count; away with Nicolete thy daughter in God; cursed be the 
land whence she was brought into this country, for by reason of her 
do I lose Aucassin, that will neither be dubbed knight, nor do aught of 
the things that fall to him to be done. And wit ye well/' he said, "that 
if I might have her at my will, I would burn her in a fire, and yourself 
might well be sore adread." 

"Sir," said the Captain, "this is grievous to me that he comes and 
goes and hath speech with her. I had bought the maiden at mine own 
charges, and nourished her, and baptized, and made her my daughter 
in God. Yea, I would have given her to a young man that should win 
her bread honourably. With this had Aucassin thy son nought to make 
or mend. But, sith it is thy will and thy pleasure, I will send her into 
that land and that country where never will he see her with his eyes." 

"Have a heed to thyself," said the Count Garin, "thence might great 
evil come on thee." 

So parted they each from other. Now the Captain was a right rich 
man: so had he a rich palace with a garden in face of it; in an upper 
chamber thereof he let place Nicolete with one old woman to keep her 
company, and in that chamber put bread and meat and wine and such 
things as were needful. Then he let seal the door, that none might come 
in or go forth, save that there was one window, over against the garden, 
and strait enough, where through came to them a little air. 

Here singeth one: 

Nicolete as ye heard tell 
Prisoned is within a cell 
That is painted wondrously 
With colours of a far countrie, 
And the window of marble wrought, 
There the maiden stood in thought, 
With straight brows and yellow hair 
Never saw ye fairer fair! 
On the wood she gazed below, 
And she saw the roses blow, 
Heard the birds sing loud and low, 
Therefore spoke she wofully: 
"Ah me, wherefore do I lie 
Here in prison wrongfully: 
Aucassin, my love, my knight, 
Am I not thy heart's delight, 
Thou that lovest me aright! 
'Tis for thee that I must dwell 
In the vaulted chamber cell, 



$2 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Hard beset and all alone! 
By our Lady Mary's Son 
Here no longer will I wonn, 
If I may flee!" 

Aueassin went to the Captain and demanded of him what he had done 
with Nicolete. The Captain declared that the lover should never see his 
lass again, and Aueassin went away sorrowing. 

Here singeth one: 

Aueassin did so depart 
Much in dole and heavy at heart 
For his love so bright and dear, 
None might bring him any cheer, 
None might give good words to hear, 
To the palace doth he fare 
Climbeth up the palace-stair, 
Passeth to a chamber there, 
Thus great sorrow doth he bear, 
For his lady and love so fair. 
"Nicolete how fair art thou, 
Sweet thy foot-fall, sweet thine eyes, 
Sweet the mirth of thy replies, 
Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face, 
Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow, 
And the touch of thine embrace, 
All for thee I sorrow now, 
Captive in an evil place, 
Whence I ne'er may go my ways 
Sister, sweet friend!" 

While Aueassin was sorrowing for Nicolete his father was waging war, 
and waxed wroth that his son joined not his band of fighters. To gain 
his help he made covenant with the youth that should he come back 
unharmed from the fray he should see his love even so long as to have 
of her two words or three, and one kiss. Yet though Aueassin fought 
bravely and captured the Count of Valence, his father failed to keep his 
oath and cast his son into a dungeon. 

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: 

Aueassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolete, 
of her part, was in the chamber. Now it was summer time, the month 
of May, when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the night still 
and serene. Nicolete lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine 
clear through a window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the 
garden, so she minded her of Aueassin her lover whom she loved so well. 
Then fell she to thoughts of Count Garin de Biaucaire, that hated her to 
the death; therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, 
for that, if she were told of, and the Count knew whereas she lay, an ill 
death would he make her die. Now she knew that the old woman slept 
who held her company. Then she arose, and clad in a mantle of silk 
she had by her, very goodly, and took napkins, and sheets of the bed, 
and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she 
might, so knitted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down 
into the garden, then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and 



IN LYRIC MOOD 33 

before, and kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying 
deep on the grass, and so went her way down through the garden. 

Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue and smiling, her face 
featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red than 
cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; her breasts 
so firm that they bore up the folds of her bodice as they had been two 
apples; so slim was she in the waist that your two hands might have 
clipped her, and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as she went 
tip-toe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against her feet, 
so white was the maiden. She came to the postern gate, and unbarred 
it, and went out through the streets of Biaucaire, keeping always on 
the shadowy side, for the moon was shining right clear, and so wandered 
she till she came to the tower where her lover lay. The tower was flanked 
with buttresses, and she cowered under one of them, wrapped in her 
mantle. Then thrust she her head through a crevice of the tower that 
was old and worn, and so heard she Aucassin wailing within, and mak- 
ing dole and lament for the sweet lady he loved so well. And when she 
had listened to him she began to say: 

Here one singeth: 

Nicolete the bright of brow 
On a pillar leanest thou, 
All Aucassin's wail doth hear 
For his love that is so dear, 
Then thou spakest, shrill and clear, 
" Gentle knight withouten fear 
Little good befalleth thee, 
Little help of sigh or tear, 
Ne'er shalt thou have joy of me. 
Never shalt thou win me; still 
Am I held in evil will 
Of thy father and thy kin, 
Therefore must 1 cross the sea, 
And another land must win." 
Then she cut her curls of gold, 
Cast them in the dungeon hold, 
Aucassin doth clasp them there, 
Kissed the curls that were so fair, 
Them doth in his bosom bear, 
Then he wept, even as of old, 
All for his love! 

While Aucassin and Nicolete were disputing on the age old theme as to 

which loved the other the more the town's guards came down the street 

charged by Aucassin's father, Count Garin, to slay the maid. But the 

sentinel that was on the tower saw them and thought it great pity to slay 

so fair a maid. 

Here one singeth: 

Valiant was the sentinel, 
Courteous, kind, and practised well, 
So a song did sing and tell 
Of the peril that befell. 
"Maiden fair that lingerest here, 
Gentle maid of merry cheer, 
Hair of gold, and eyes as clear 
As the water in a mere, 
Thou, meseems, hast spoken word 



34 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

To thy lover and thy lord, 
That would die for thee, his dear; 
Now beware the ill accord, 
Of the cloaked men of the sword, 
These have sworn and keep their word, 
They will put thee to the sword 
Save thou take heed!" 

The guards passed by and Nicolete let herself slip into the fosse and 
then climbed the wall and fled into the forest where she fell asleep in a 
thicket. When she awakened she saw some shepherd lads eating their 
bread by a fountain and by them she sent word to Aucassin that he 
should come to the forest to hunt. 

Then spake they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

Nicolete built her lodge of boughs, as ye have heard, right fair and 
feteously, and wove it well, within and without, of flowers and leaves. 
So lay she hard by the lodge in a deep coppice to know what Aucassin 
will do. And the cry and the bruit went abroad through all the country 
and all the land, that Nicolete was lost. Some told that she had fled, and 
some that the Count Garin had let slay her. Whosoever had joy thereof, 
no joy had Aucassin. And the Count Garin, his father, had taken him 
out of prison, and had sent for the knights of that land, and the ladies, 
and let make a right great feast, for the comforting of Aucassin his son. 
Now at the high time of the feast, was Aucassin leaning from a gallery, 
all woful and discomforted. Whatsoever men might devise of mirth, 
Aucassin had no joy thereof, nor no desire, for he saw not her that he 
loved. Then a knight looked on him, and came to him, and said: 

"Aucassin, of that sickness of thine have I been sick, and good coun- 
sel will I give thee, if thou wilt hearken to me — " 

"Sir," said Aucassin, "gramercy, good counsel would I fain hear." 

"Mount thy horse," quoth he, "and go take thy pastime in yonder 
forest, there wilt thou see the good flowers and grass, and hear the sweet 
birds sing. Perchance thou shalt hear some word, whereby thou shalt 
be the better." 

"Sir," quoth Aucassin, "gramercy, that will I do." 

He passed out of the hall, and went down the stairs, and came to 
the stable where his horse was!' He let saddle and bridle him, and 
mounted, and rode forth from the castle, and wandered till he came to the 
forest, so rode till he came to the fountain, and found the shepherds 
at point of noon. And they had a mantle stretched on the grass, and were 
eating bread, and making great joy. 

From the lads Aucassin learned that Nicolete had passed through the 
forest and he rode on his search madly hurling his horse through the 
briars. 

All down an old road, and grassgrown he fared, when anon looking 
along the way before him, he saw such an one as I shall tell you. Tall 
was he, and great of growth, laidly and marvellous to look upon: his head 
huge, and black as charcoal, and more than the breadth of a hand be- 
tween his two eyes, and great cheeks, and a big nose and broad, big 



IN LYRIC MOOD 35 

nostrils and ugly, and thick lips redder than a collop, and great teeth 
yellow and ugly, and he was shod with hosen and shoon of bull's hide, 
bound with cords of bark over the knee, all about him a great cloak 
twy-fold, and he leaned on a grievous cudgel, and Aucassin came unto 
him, and was afraid when he beheld him. 

"Fair brother, God aid thee." 

"God bless you,' , quoth he. 

"As God he helpeth thee, what makest thou here?" 

"What is that to thee?" 

"Nay, naught, naught," saith Aucassin, "I ask but out of courtesy." 

"But for whom weepest thou," quoth he, "and makest such heavy 
lament? Certes, were I as rich a man as thou, the whole world should 
not make me weep." 

"Ha! know ye me?" saith Aucassin. 

"Yea, I know well that ye be Aucassin, the son of the Count, and if 
ye tell me for why ye weep, then will I tell you what I make here." 

"Certes," quoth Aucassin, "I will tell you right gladly. Hither came 
I this morning to hunt in this forest; and with me a white hound, the 
fairest in the world; him have I lost, and for him I weep." 

"By the Heart our Lord bare in his breast," quoth he, "are ye weep- 
ing for a stinking hound? Foul fall him that holds thee high henceforth! 
for there is no such rich man in the land, but if thy father asked it of him, 
he would give thee ten, or fifteen, or twenty, and be the gladder for it. 
But I have cause to weep and make dole." 

"Wherefore so, brother?" 

"Sir, I will tell thee. I was hireling to a rich villain, and drove his 
plough; four oxen had he. But three days since came on me great mis- 
adventure, whereby I lost the best of mine oxen, Roger, the best of my 
team. Him go I seeking, and have neither eaten nor drunken these three 
days, nor may I go to the town, lest they cast me into prison, seeing 
that I have not wherewithal to pay. Out of all the wealth of the world 
have I no more than ye see on my body. A poor mother bare me, that 
had no more but one wretched bed; this have they taken from under 
her, and she lies in the very straw. This ails me more than mine own case, 
for wealth comes and goes; if now I have lost, another tide will I gain, 
and will pay for mine ox whenas I may; never for that will I weep. But 
you weep for a stinking hound. Foul fall whoso thinks well of thee!" 

"Certes, thou art a good comforter, brother, blessed be thou! And 
of what price was thine ox?" 

"Sir, they ask me twenty sols for him, whereof I cannot abate one 
doit." 

"Nay, then," quoth Aucassin, "take these twenty sols I have in my 
purse, and pay for thine ox." 

"Sir," saith he, "gramercy. And God give thee to find that thou 
seekest." 

So they parted each from other, and Aucassin rode on: the night 
was fair and still, and so long he went that he came to the lodge of 
boughs, that Nicolete had builded and woven within and without, over 
and under, with flowers, and it was the fairest lodge that might be 
seen. When Aucassin was ware of it, he stopped suddenly, and the light 
of the moon fell therein. 



36 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"God!" quoth Aucassin, "here was Nicolete my sweet lady, and 
this lodge builded she with her fair hands. For the sweetness of it, 
and for love of her, will I alight, and rest here this night long." 

He drew forth his foot from the stirrup to alight, and the steed was 
great and tall. Fie dreamed so much on Nicolete his right sweet lady, 
that he slipped on a stone, and drave his shoulder out of his place. Then 
knew he that he was hurt sore, natheless he bore him with what force 
he might, and fastened with the other hand the mare's son to a thorn. 
Then turned he on his side, and crept backwise into the lodge of boughs. 
And he looked through a gap in the lodge and saw the stars in heaven, 
and one that was brighter than the rest; so began he to say: 

Here singeth one: 

"Star, that I from far behold, 
Star, the Moon calls to her fold, 
Nicolete with thee doth dwell, ; 
My sweet love with locks of gold, 
God would have her dwell afar, 
Dwell with him for evening star, 
Would to God whate'er befell, 
Would that with her I might dwell. 
I would clip her close and strait, 
Nay, were I of much estate, 
Some king's son desirable, 
Worthy she to be my mate, 
Me to kiss and clip me well, 
Sister, sweet friend 1" 

So speak they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

When Nicolete heard Aucassin, right so came she unto him, for she 
was not far away. She passed within the lodge, and threw her arms about 
his neck, and clipped and kissed him. 

"Fair sweet friend, welcome be thou." 

"And thou, fair sweet love, be thou welcome." 

So either kissed and clipped the other, and fair joy was them between. 

"Ha! sweet love," quoth Aucassin, "but now was I sore hurt, and my 
shoulder wried, but I take no force of it, nor have no hurt therefrom since 
I have thee." 

Right so felt she his shoulder and found it was wried from its place. 
And she so handled it with her white hands, and so wrought in her sur- 
gery, that by God's will who loveth lovers, it went back into its place. 
Then took she flowers, and fresh grass, and leaves green, and bound these 
herbs on the hurt with a strip of her smock, and he was all healed. 

Then Aucassin took Nicolete before him on his horse and through the 
country they rode till they came to the sea shore, and there they were 
brought aboard a ship and came at last to the haven of the castle of Tore- 
lore. Here they found king and queen exchanging duties, and Aucassin 
did set them right. Then he and Nicolete dwelt in the castle in great 
delight until a band of Saracens seized them and threw Aucassin into 
one ship and Nicolete into another. Aucassin's ship bore him to Biau- 
caire, his own land, where he found his parents dead and himself the over- 
lord. And he held the land in peace. 



IN LYRIC MOOD 37 

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

Now leave we Aucassin, and speak we of Nicolete. The ship wherein 
she was cast pertained to the King of Carthage, and he was her father, 
and she had twelve brothers, all princes or kings. When they beheld 
Nicolete, how fair she was, they did her great worship, and made much 
joy of her, and many times asked her who she was, for surely seemed 
she a lady of noble line and high parentry. But she might not tell them 
of her lineage, for she was but a child when men stole her away. So sailed 
they till they won the City of Carthage, and when Nicolete saw the walls 
of the castle, and the country-side, she knew that there had she been 
nourished and thence stolen away, being but a child. Yet was she 
not so young a child but that well she knew she had been daughter 
of the King of Carthage; and of her nurture in that city. 

Here singeth one: 

Nicolete the good and true 
To the land has come anew, 
Sees the palaces and walls, 
And the houses and the halls! 
Then she spake and said, "Alas! 
That of birth so great I was, 
Cousin of the Amiral 
And the very child of him 
Carthage counts King of Paynim, 
Wild folk hold me here withal; 
Nay Aucassin, love of thee 
Gentle knight, and true, and free, 
Burns and wastes the heart of me. 
Ah God grant it of his grace, 
That thou hold me, and embrace, 
That thou kiss me on the face 
Love and lord!" 

Then speak they, say they, tell they the Tale: 

When the King of Carthage heard Nicolete speak in this wise, he cast 
his arms about her neck. 

"Fair sweet love," saith he, "tell me who thou art, and be not adread 
of me." 

"Sir," said she, "I am daughter to the King of Carthage, and was 
taken, being then a little child, it is now fifteen years gone." 

When all they of the court heard her speak thus, they knew well that 
she spake sooth: so made they great joy of her, and led her to the castle 
in great honour, as the King's daughter. And they would have given 
her to her lord a King of Paynim, but she had no mind to marry. 
There dwelt she three days or four. And she considered by what means 
she might seek for Aucassin. Then she got her a viol, and learned to play 
on it, till they would have married her on a day to a great King of Pay- 
nim, and she stole forth by night, and came to the seaport, and dwelt 
with a poor woman thereby. Then took she a certain herb, and therewith 
smeared her head and her face, till she was all brown and stained. And 
she let make coat, and mantle, and smock, and hose, and attired her- 
self as if she had been a harper. So took she the viol and went to a mar- 
iner, and so wrought on him that he took her aboard his vessel. Then 
hoisted they sail, and fared on the high seas even till they came to the 
land of Provence. And Nicolete went forth and took the viol, and went 



38 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

playing through all that country even till she came to the castle of Biau- 
caire, where Aucassin lay. 

On the stair Nicolete set foot, not betraying who she was, and she sang 
to Aucassin of what had befallen his love. 

So speak they, say they, tell they the Tale : 

When Aucassin heard Nicolete speak in this wise, he was right joyful, 
and drew her on one side, and spoke, saying: 

"Sweet fair friend, knew ye nothing of this Nicolete, of whom ye have 
thus sung?" 

"Yea, Sir, I know her for the noblest creature, and the most gen- 
tle, and the best that ever was born on ground. She is daughter to the 
King of Carthage that took her there where Aucassin was taken, and 
brought her into the city of Carthage, till he knew that verily she was 
his own daughter, whereon he made right great mirth. Anon wished he 
to give her for her lord one of the greatest kings of all Spain, but she 
would rather let herself be hanged or burned, than take any lord, how 
great soever." 

"Ha! fair sweet friend," quoth the Count Aucassin, "if thou wilt 
go into that land again, and bid her come and speak to me, I will give 
thee of my substance, more than thou wouldst dare to ask or take. And 
know ye that for the sake of her, I have no will to take a wife, howsoever 
high her lineage. So wait I for her, and never will I have a wife, but her 
only. And if I knew where to find her, no need would I have to seek her." 

"Sir," quoth she, "if ye promise me that, I will go in quest of her 
for your sake, and for hers, that I love much." 

So he sware to her, and anon let give her twenty livres, and she de- 
parted from him, and he wept for the sweetness of Nicolete. And when 
she saw him weeping, she said: 

"Sir, trouble not thyself so much withal. For in a little while shall 
I have brought her into this city, and ye shall see her." 

When Aucassin heard that, he was right glad thereof. And she 
departed from him, and went into the city to the house of the Captain's 
wife, for the Captain her father in God was dead. So she dwelt there, 
and told all her tale; and the Captain's wife knew her, and knew well 
that she was Nicolete that she herself had nourished. Then she let 
wash and bathe her, and there rested she eight full days. Then took she 
an herb that was named Eyebright and anointed herself therewith, 
and was as fair as ever she had been all the days of her life. Then she 
clothed herself in rich robes of silk whereof the lady had great store, 
and then sat herself in the chamber on a silken coverlet, and called the 
lady and bade her go and bring Aucassin her love, and she did even so. 
And when she came to the Palace she found Aucassin weeping, and mak- 
ing lament for Nicolete his love, for that she delayed so long. And the 
lady spake unto him and said: 

"Aucassin, sorrow no more, but come thou on with me, and I will 
show thee the thing in the world that thou lovest best ; even Nicolete thy 
dear love, who from far lands hath come to seek of thee." And Aucassin 
was right glad. 



CHAPTER III 

STIRRINGS OF DEMOCRACY AND THE GREAT 
AWAKENING 

The folk lore of a people is the surest treasure house for 
knowledge of the temper of the time, and this is as true of 
the fabliaux (composed from about the middle of the twelfth 
to the middle of the fourteenth century) in France as it is in 
other countries. The fabliau was a short tale in verse, a tale, 
w T hich, while it related a story, seized the opportunity to 
make comment upon the action of its characters and thus to 
satirize or approve the life which they represented. Many 
were the subjects of the fabliau; now it was given to tales of 
piety and now to jests at the expense of the clergy; at one 
moment it related experiences of domestic life, coarse both 
in tone and in telling, as was almost alw r ays the character at 
that time of any story about women; again it was pathetic or 
tragic or simply humorous. La Fontaine in the seventeenth 
century borrowed from Gautier Le Long of the thirteenth 
century a " human interest story" and turned it into modern 
French as 

THE YOUNG WIDOW 
The death of a husband goes not unwept; first comes lamentation, 
then consolation. Sadness flies away upon the wings of Time who brings 
Pleasure back again. A great difference is to be found between the widow 
of a day and the widow of a year; it is hard to believe that she is the same 
person. The former causes people to fly from her, but the latter has a 
thousand attractions. The first abandons. herself to sighs, whether true 
or false; she always entertains her hearers with the same mournful note. 
She is inconsolable, so she says; but is she? Let this fable, or, rather, 
let the Truth speak. 

39 



40 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

A young beauty lost her husband. Beside his deathbed she cried out 
in her pain: "Wait for me, wait, I follow. My soul is ready to fly away 
with yours." The husband, however, made the journey alone. The 
beauty's father was wise and prudent. He allowed the torrent to run 
its course. Finally to console her he said: " Daughter, your tears flow 
too copiously. Do you help the dead by injuring your beauty? We are 
among the living; cease thinking about the dead. A happier frame of 
mind might not immediately change these lamentations into marriage, 
but perhaps later a handsome husband, as young and well-made as the 
deceased might be found for you." "Ah," she answered quickly, "a 
cloister is the husband I desire." Her father left her alone to digest her 
sorrow. A month passed thus; another, and she began to pay more 
attention to her dress and headgear. At last, growing impatient for 
gayer clothes her mourning became frankly an adornment. The whole 
flock of Loves came back to the dove-cote, games, laughter, dancing 
once more held sway. Morning and evening she plunged into the foun- 
tain of Youth. No longer did the father fear the effect of grief. But, as 
he said nothing to our beauty — "Where, then, is the young husband you 
promised me? " said she. 

Nor was La Fontaine the only borrower from the fabliaux, 
Moliere in France, Chaucer and Shakspere in England, 
Boccaccio in Italy took possession of plots with the calmness 
of the genius who knows that when an idea has passed through 
the crucible of his temperament it becomes so changed that 
it may be truthfully called his own. Such a story as the fol- 
lowing tale of filial ingratitude is one whose appeal is not 
limited to any one country. 

THE DIVIDED HORSECLOTH 

(Abridged from the translation by Eugene Mason) 

Some seven years ago it befell that a rich burgess of Abbeville departed 
from the town, together with his wife, his only son, and all his wealth, 
his goods and plenishing. From Abbeville he went up to Paris. There he 
sought a shop and dwelling, and paying his service, made himself vassal 
and burgess of the King. The merchant was diligent and courteous, 
his wife smiling and gracious, and their son was not given over to folly, 
but went soberly, even as his parents taught him. So this wealthy mer- 
chant lived a happy blameless life, till, by the will of God, his wife was 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 41 

taken from him, who had been his companion for some thirty years. 
Now these parents had but one only child, a son, even as I have told you 
before. Very grievously did he mourn the death of her who had cher- 
ished him so softly. Then, to put a little comfort in his heart, his father 
said to him — 

"Thou art a young bachelor, and it is time to take thee a wife. I am 
full of years, and so I may find thee a fair marriage in an honourable 
house I will endow thee with my substance. I will now seek a bride for 
thee of birth and breeding — one of family and descent. There, where 
it is good and profitable to be, I will set thee gladly, nor of wealth and 
moneys shalt thou find a lack." 

Now in that place were three brethren, knights of high lineage, cousins 
to mighty lords of peerage, bearing rich and honourable blazons on their 
shields. But these knights had no heritage. The eldest of these brothers 
had a daughter, but the mother of the maid was dead. Now this dam- 
sel owned in Paris a certain fair house, over against the mansion of the 
wealthy merchant. So the merchant, esteeming her a lady of family 
and estate, demanded her hand in marriage of her father and of all her 
friends. The knight inquired in his turn of the means and substance 
of the merchant, who answered very frankly — 

"In merchandise and in moneys I have near upon fifteen hundred 
pounds. I have besides one hundred Paris pounds, which I have gained 
in honest dealings. Of all this I will give my son the half." 

"Fair sir," made answer the knight, "in no wise can this be agreed 
to. Had you become a Templar, or a White or a Black Monk you would 
have granted the whole of your wealth either to the Temple or your 
Abbey. By my faith, we cannot consent to so grudging an offer, certes, 
sir merchant, no." 

"Tell me then what you would have me do." 

"Very willingly, fair, dear sir. We would that you grant to your son 
the sum and total of your substance, so that he be seised of all your wealth. 
If you consent to this the marriage can be made, but otherwise he shall 
never wed our child and niece." 

The merchant turned this over for a while, now looking upon his son, 
now deep in thought. But very badly he was served of all his thought 
and pondering. For at the last he made reply to him and said — 

"Lord, it shall even be done according to your will. This is our cove- 
nant and bargain, that so your daughter is given to my son I will grant 
him all that I have of worth. I take this company as witness that here 
I strip myself of everything I own, so that naught is mine, but all is his, 
of what I once was seised and possessed." 



42 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Thus before the witnesses he divested himself utterly of all his wealth, 
and became naked as a peeled wand in the eyes of the world. So when 
the words were spoken and the merchant altogether spoiled, then the 
knight took his daughter by the hand and handfasted her with the 
bachelor, and she became his wife. 

For two years after this marriage the husband and the dame lived 
a quiet and peaceful life. Then a fair son was born to the bachelor, and 
the lady cherished and guarded him fondly. With them dwelt the mer- 
chant in the same lodging, but very soon he perceived that he had given 
himself a mortal blow in despoiling himself of his substance to live on 
the charity of others. But perforce he remained of their household for 
more than twelve years, until the lad had grown up tall, and began to 
take notice, and to remember that which often he heard of the making 
of his father's marriage. 

The merchant was full of years. He leaned upon his staff, and went 
bent with age, as one who searches for his lost youth. His son was weary 
of his presence, and would gladly have paid for the spinning of his shroud. 
The dame, who was proud and disdainful, held him in utter despite, for 
greatly he was against her heart. Never was she silent, but always was 
she saying to her lord — 

" Husband, for love of me, send your father upon his business. I lose 
all appetite just for the sight of him about the house." 

"Wife," answered he, "this shall be done according to your wish." 

So because of his wife's anger and importunity, he sought out his 
father straightway, and said — 

"Father, father, get you gone from here. I tell you that you must 
do the best you can, for we may no longer concern ourselves with you and 
your lodging. For twelve years and more we have given you food and 
raiment in our house. Now all is done, so rise and depart forthwith, 
and fend for yourself, as fend you must." 

Then the father grieved so bitterly that for a little his very heart 
would have broken. Weak as he was, he raised himself to his feet and 
went forth from the house weeping. 

"Son," said he, "I commend thee to God; but since thou wilt that I 
go, for the love of Him give me at least a portion of packing cloth to 
shelter me against the wind. I am but lightly clad, and fear to die for 
reason of the cold." 

Then he who shrank from any grace of charity made reply — 

"Father, I have no cloth, so neither can I bestow, nor have it taken 
from me." 

"Fair, sweet son, my heart trembles within me, so greatly do I dread 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 43 

the cold. Give me, then, the cloth you spread upon your horse, so that I 
come to no evil." 

So he, seeing that he might not rid himself of his father save by the 
granting of a gift, and being desirous above all that he should part, bade 
his son to fetch this horsecloth. When the lad heard his father's call he 
sprang to him, saying — 

"Father, what is your pleasure?" 

"Fair son," said he, "get you to the stable, and if you find it open give 
my father the covering that is upon my horse. Give him the best cloth 
in the stable, so that he may make himself a mantle or a habit, or any 
other sort of cloak that pleases him." 

Then the lad, who was thoughtful beyond his years, made answer — 

"Grandsire, come now with me." 

So the merchant went with him to the stable, exceedingly heavy and 
wrathful. The lad chose the best horsecloth he might find in the stable, 
the newest, the largest, and the most fair; this he folded in two, and 
drawing forth his knife, divided the cloth in two portions. Then he 
bestowed on his grandfather one half of the sundered horsecloth. 

"Fair child," said the old man, "what have you done? Why have you 
cut the cloth that your father has given me? Very cruelly have you 
treated me, for you were bidden to give me the horsecloth whole. I 
shall return and complain to my son thereof." 

"Go where you will," replied the boy, "for certainly you shall have 
nothing more from me." 

The merchant went forth from the stable. 

"Son," said he, "chastise now thy child, since he counts thy word as 
nothing but an idle tale, and fears not to disobey thy commandment. 
Dost thou not see that he keeps one half of the horsecloth?" 

"Plague take thee!" cried the father; "give him all the cloth." 

"Certes," replied the boy, "that will I never do, for how then shall 
you be paid? Rather will I keep the half until I am grown a man, and 
then give it to you. For just as you have chased him from your house, 
so I will put you from my door. Even as he has bestowed on you all his 
wealth, so, in my turn, will I require of you all your substance. Naught 
from me shall you carry away, save that only which you have granted to 
him. If you leave him to die in his misery, I wait my day, and surely will 
leave you to perish in yours." 

The father listened to these words, and at the end sighed heavily. 
He repented him of the evil that he purposed, and from the parable that 
his child had spoken took heed and warning. Turning himself about 
towards the merchant, he said — 



44 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Father, return to my house. Sin and the Enemy thought to have 
caught me in the snare, but, please God, I have escaped from the fowler. 
Henceforth you shall live softly in the ceiled chamber, near by a blazing 
fire, clad warmly in your furred robe, even as I. And all this is not of 
charity, but of your right, for, fair sweet father, if I am rich it is because 
of your substance." 

And deeply should this adventure be considered of those who are 
about to marry their children. Let them not strip themselves so bare 
as to have nothing left. For he who gives all, and depends upon the 
charity of others, prepares a rod for his own back. 

It was during these two centuries of the early middle ages, 
the twelfth and thirteenth, that there came into being the 
middle or citizen class, the bourgeois, so called because it 
lived in bourgs or towns. A fourteenth century chanson 
called "Hugh the Butcher" recognizes that the origin of 
the Capetian house through the elevation to the throne (in 
987) of Hugh Capet, who was said to be a butcher's son, 
encouraged the democracy by giving the highest power to a 
man of low origin. During the crusading years the lords were 
frequently obliged to grant concessions to towns, many of 
them already privileged, and to individuals of minor degree 
in order to secure men and money for their following. These 
same followers, trained by generations of fighting in the pri- 
vate wars of their feudal masters, developed a power of intelli- 
gent thinking which, when increased by the broadening knowl- 
edge of men and things that they gained in the East, raised 
them in their own respect and in regard of the barons whom 
they served. Knowledge and the arts ceased to be the ex- 
clusive possession of the church, and laymen became builders, 
craftsmen, teachers, artists, musicians, and lawyers. Philip 
Augustus encouraged the citizen class through gifts and grants 
with the result that they supported him unswervingly in his 
efforts to establish the royal authority, whether he united with 
the barons against the encroachments of the church or with the 
church against the presumption of the barons. Louis IX — 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 45 

St. Louis — increased the power of the king by a consistent 
policy of concentration, which included the lessening of the 
privileges of the communal or independent towns. The class 
of citizens whom these towns had fostered, however, did not 
change with the altered political situation. Rather did their 
consciousness of their rights as men, which showed itself in 
the fabliaux, and which never has died out through all the 
tale of French letters, increase, to burst into eruption at the 
French Revolution, and to live even now as that spirit of 
Democracy which makes France with its bourgeois rulers, one 
of the most interesting political exhibits of modern times. 

Most of the fabliaux were composed either by nobles or by 
bourgeois rhymesters for people of their own class. The 
church, too, was not slow to take advantage of the popularity 
of this homely form, and to use it as a vehicle for religious 
teaching. When the nobles told the story they pictured all 
men beneath them as clowns and fools. The bourgeois on 
the other hand shot shafts of subtle malice and restless scorn 
at the knights and the clergy of whose superiority they were 
beginning to feel the sting. This early literature shows the 
esprit gaulois, the " Gallic spirit " of satire, always clever and 
more often than not good-natured — the spirit which is a real 
race characteristic and which is as frequent and as marked 
to-day as ever it was. 

No satirist of all the early crew was sharper in his attacks 
than Rutebeuf of the thirteenth century whose tone may 
be gathered from the passage below on the monks. 

* By many a shift and many a part 

Live they who know no trade or art 

To gain their life in honest way, 

Some clothe themselves in sackcloth gray, 

And some, to show the good they do, 

Go without shirts the whole year through. 

* Translated by Walter Besant. 



46 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

The Jacobins, so rich at home, 
Rule Paris here, and there rule Rome; 
Kings and Apostles both are they, 
And year by year still grows their sway. 

For when one dies, if in his will 
The order be not mentioned, still 
His soul may wait without, that so 
The Order thus may greater grow. 

There were other popular literary forms at this time such 
as debates, ironical " legacies," and " Bibles," which were 
works of much erudition. ^Esop's Fables were told again in 
groups called "Ysopets." One of the most pleasing writers 
of these fables was Marie of France, a French woman of 
the twelfth century who lived long in England. She left also 
a group of "lais," cheerful poems, usually two or three hun- 
dred lines long, chiefly describing love adventures. One of 
these, here turned into prose, is called 

THE LAY OF THE HONEYSUCKLE 

(Translated from the Lays of Marie de France by Eugene Mason) 

With a glad heart and right good mind will I tell the Lay that men call 
Honeysuckle; and that the truth may be known of all it shall be told 
as many a minstrel has sung it to my ear, and as the scribe hath written 
it for our delight. It is of Tristan and Isoude, the Queen. It is of a love 
which passed all other love, of love from whence came wondrous sorrow, 
and whereof they died together in the self-same day. 

King Mark was sorely wrath with Tristan, his sister's son, and bade 
him avoid his realm, by reason of the love he bore the Queen. So Tristan 
repaired to his own land, and dwelt for a full year in South Wales, where 
he was born. Then since he might not come where he would be, Tristan 
took no heed to his ways, but let his life run waste to Death. Marvel 
not overmuch thereat, for he who loves beyond measure must ever be 
sick in heart and hope, when he may not win according to his wish. So 
sick in heart and mind was Tristan that he left his kingdom, and returned 
straight to the realm of his banishment, because that in Cornwall dwelt 
the Queen. There he hid privily in the deep forest, withdrawn from the 
eyes of men; only when the evening was come, and all things sought their 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 47 

rest, he prayed the peasant and other mean folk of that country, of their 
charity to grant him shelter for the night. From the serf he gathered 
tidings of the King. These gave again to him what they, in turn, had 
taken from some outlawed knight. Thus Tristan learned that when 
Pentecost was come King Mark purposed to hold high court at Tintagel, 
and keep the feast with pomp and revelry; moreover that thither would 
ride Isoude, the Queen. 

When Tristan heard this thing he rejoiced greatly, since the Queen 
might not adventure through the forest, except he saw her with his eyes. 
After the King had gone his way, Tristan entered within the wood, and 
sought the path by which the Queen must come. There he cut a wand 
from out a certain hazel-tree, and having trimmed and peeled it of its 
bark, with his dagger he carved his name upon the wood. This he placed 
upon her road, for well he knew that should the Queen but mark his name 
she would bethink her of her friend. Thus had it chanced before. For 
this was the sum of the writing set upon the wand, for Queen Isoude's 
heart alone: how that in this wild place Tristan had lurked and waited 
long, so that he might look upon her face, since without her he was al- 
ready dead. Was it not with them as with the Honeysuckle and the Hazel 
tree she was passing by! So sweetly laced and taken were they in one 
close embrace, that thus they might remain whilst life endured. But 
should rough hands part so fond a clasping, the hazel would wither at the 
root, and the honeysuckle must fail. Fair friend, thus is the case with 
us, nor you without me, nor I without you. 

Now the Queen fared at adventure down the forest path. She spied 
the hazel wand set upon her road, and well she remembered the letters 
and the name. She bade the knights of her company to draw rein, and 
dismount from their palfreys, so that they might refresh themselves a 
little. When her commandment was done she withdrew from them a 
space, and called to her Brangwaine, her maiden, and own familiar friend. 
Then she hastened within the wood, to come on him whom more she 
loved than any living soul. How great the joy between these twain, 
that once more they might speak together softly, face to face. Isoude 
showed him her delight. She showed in what fashion she strove to bring 
peace and concord betwixt Tristan and the King, and how grievously 
his banishment had weighed upon her heart. Thus sped the hour, till 
it was time for them to part; but when these lovers freed them from the 
other's arms, the tears were wet upon their cheeks. So Tristan returned 
to Wales, his own realm, even as his uncle bade. But for the joy that he 
had had of her, his friend, for her sweet face, and for the tender words 
that she had spoken, yea, and for that writing upon the wand, to re- 



48 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

member all these things, Tristan, that cunning harper, wrought a new 
Lay, as shortly I have told you. Goatleaf, men call this song in English. 
Chevrefeuille it is named in French; but Goatleaf or Honeysuckle, here 
you have the very truth in the Lay that I have spoken. 

Of a strongly didactic turn were the Chastisements which 
discussed, usually with severity, man's faults and foibles. 
Walter Besant translates the following from a thirteenth 
century 

CHASTISEMENT OF WOMEN 

"Love is a free and a lawless thing, 
Love fears neither count nor king; 
Quails not for glittering sword and steel, 
Nor flaming tortures fears to feel. 
Dreads not waters deep and black, 
Not the whole world turns him back; 
Little cares he for father or mother, 
Little looks he for sister or brother. 
Fears not low, nor stoops to high, 
Nor thinks it any dread to die. 
Love cares nought for buckler and spear, 
For bar and bolt he will not fear; 
Loves makes lances shiver and break, 
Love makes horses stumble and shake; 
Love invents the tourney's fray, 
Love makes people happy and gay; 
Love ennobles gallantry, 
Love hates rude discourtesy; 
Love an endless song uplifts, 
Love is loaded with precious gifts; 
Love hates slothful idleness, 
Love makes generous largesse; 
Love makes cowards of brave and bold, 
Love makes misers lavish their gold; 
Love makes peace, and love makes war, 
Love makes all the locks unbar; 
Love strikes many a gallant blow, 
Love descends from high to low; 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 49 

Love mounts up from low to high, 
Nothing too great for love to try. 
Love keeps no noble blood intact, 
Love suffers many a lawless act; 
Love guards not oath or sacrament, 
Love despises chastisement; 
Love pretends religious zeal, 
But cannot keep his reason well; 
Love has ruined many a marriage, 
Brought low many a warrior's courage; 
Love is uncertain, love is vain, 
Love puts us all in dolour and pain; 
Love is good, and love is bad, 
Love makes many a visage sad; 
Love to many bringeth sadness, 
But to many he bringeth gladness." . 

More to the liking of all the people were the bestiaires or 
stories of animal lore which came West with the Aryan im- 
migration and entered into the literatures of all peoples of 
Germanic descent. In America we have the same thing in 
the "Uncle Remus Stories/' for which, however, we are in- 
debted not to any Saxon or Teutonic ancestors, but to the 
Africans, our enforced colonists. These animal stories of the 
middle ages were really tales holding up to ridicule the faults 
and foibles of men disguised under the names of the beasts 
of the field and the forest. There were many of them, but 
none to compare in strength or subtlety or form with " Renard 
the Fox" — or indeed in length, for in the course of the three 
centuries of its growth it grew to the stupendous size of 
320,000 lines. In "Renard the Fox" are united the animal 
' stories and the fabliaux of democratic spirit. Its tone had 
been touched in the eleventh century by Wace, who in his 
"Roman de Rou" makes the rebellious peasants of Laon 
who had burned the palaces of the barons and had slain the 
bishop, say of themselves and of their masters, 

"We are men as they are, such limbs as they have we have, we have 



50 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

bodies as large as theirs, and we can endure as much as they. Nothing 
fails us except courage. Let us bind ourselves by an oath, and defend 
our property and ourselves. Let us band ourselves together, and if they 
want to fight we can oppose to every Knight thirty or forty peasants, 
vigorous and strong to fight." 

A passage in " Aucassin and Nicolete" describes with entire 
sympathy a peasant's misfortunes. " Renard the Fox " had 
plenty of time in the three centuries of its creation, the 
twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth, to discuss almost every 
phase of life, every social aspect, every occupation, every 
class foible. The caste of animals includes Noble the lion, 
the king, Brun the Bear, king's counsellor, Ysengrin the 
wolf, a lord, Bernart the ass, an arch-priest, Tybert the cat, 
a friar, Rossel the squirrel, a page, and the monkey who is a 
jongleur, making jests and cutting capers to amuse the rest. 
With all these and still other characters on the stage it is easy 
to see that all mediaeval life may be played to the delight of 
the reader. " Renard " is preeminently the epic of the people, 
the bourgeois against the nobility. The Fox (the bourgeois), 
weak but crafty, meets one after another the animals of the 
forest, and invariably gets the better of the strong (the 
nobility) through his readiness of wit. The verses do not 
hesitate at anything. They burlesque church services, they 
pierce the pious pretensions of the nobles who go to the 
crusades for their own profit, and they build up a typical 
hypocrisy which crops out at intervals in all French literature. 
In the depiction of this "renardie" ("foxiness," hypocrisy) 
Moliere's "Tartuffe" is the most shining example. 

In the extracts given below the story of Renard's trial for 
the murder of the hen, Dame Copee, and of her burial and of 
the miracles performed at her grave, gives an opportunity 
for a burlesque of the customs and superstitions of the day. 

Renard is already in trouble and has appeared before 
Noble, the lion, and the other assembled animals. 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 51 

Renard would have gotten himself out of this difficulty if it had not 
been for Chantecler and Pinte, she the fifth of her family, who came be- 
fore the king to lay a charge against Renard. The fire is hard to put out 
now, for Sire Chantecler, the cock, and Pinte, who lays large eggs, and 
Black and White, and Reddy were dragging a little wagon with drawn 
curtains. Within lay a hen whom they carried on a litter like a bier. 
Renard had so maltreated her, and had so torn her with his teeth that 
he had broken her thigh and torn a wing from her body. 

[The escort cry for justice, Dame Pinte declaring that Renard had de- 
voured all four of her sisters. Overcome by the vigor of her appeal she 
falls in a swoon upon the ground and so do all the rest.] 

To succor the four ladies, dogs, wolves and other animals rise from their 
seats and throw water on their heads. [When they regain their senses 
they prostrate themselves before the king who expresses every sympathy 
with them and declares himself ready to avenge them upon Renard.] 

When Ysengrin [the wolf, Renard's eternal enemy] hears the king 
he rises quickly: "Sire," he says, "it is a valiant act on your part. You 
will be praised everywhere if you will avenge Dame Pinte and her sister 
Dame Copee whom Renard has thus maimed. I do not speak from hatred 
but I say it in behalf of the young lady whom he killed, for God forbid 
that I do anything out of hatred for Renard!" 

[The emperor declares his own displeasure at Renard's behavior, and 
then gives orders for the burial of Dame Copee.] 

"Sire Brun [bear], take the stole, and you, Sire Bellower [the bull] 
commend to God the soul of this body. Up there in that field dig me a 
grave between the meadow and the garden. Then we will turn to other 
business." 

"Sire," said Brun, "I obey your pleasure." Then he went and put 
on the stole, and not only he but at the same time the king and all the 
other members of the council began to chant the vigils. Sire Tardif 
[Slow] the Snail, sang three lessons for the dead hen. It was Roonel 
[the mastiff] who intoned the verses accompanied by Brichemer [the stag]; 
and Brun the bear repeated the prayer that God may keep the soul from 
prison. 

When the vigils were sung and the meeting had come to a close they 
carried away the body to bury it. But first they enclosed it in a hand- 
some leaden coffin. Never was richer seen! Then they buried it under a 
tree and over it erected a stone. On it they inscribed the lady's name 
and her position, and commended her soul: I do not know whether it 
was done with chisel or brush. The}' made no absurd eulogy; they placed 
an epitaph under the tree at a suitable spot: 



52 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Here lies Copee, sister of Pintain, 
according to an arrangement made 
this morning by Renard who rules each 
day: with his teeth he brought to pass 
this cruel martyrdom. " 

Whoever saw Pintain weeping then must have cursed Renard and con- 
signed him to the infernal regions; whoever saw Chantecler stretch forth 
his feet must have felt great pity for him. 

When the interment was over and the mourning began to abate the 
barons cried: "Emperor, avenge us upon this glutton who has done so 
many treacherous acts and so often has broken the peace ! " "I want to," 
said the Emperor. "Go now, Brun, fair, sweet brother, you have no 
affection for him. Tell Renard from me that I have waited for him three 
whole days." "Willingly, Sire," said Brun. Then he ambled through a 
cultivated valley without sitting down or resting. 

During his absence there happened at the court a circumstance which 
made Renard's case much worse. Copee did great miracles. Messire 
Couard, the hare, who had been shaking with the fever of fear for two 
days running, by the grace of God was cured of it at Dame Copee's tomb. 
For he never wished to leave the spot where she was buried, and slept 
upon the martyr's tomb. And when Ysengrin heard it he said that she 
was really a martyr and he declared that he had an earache. Roonel, 
who was his adviser, made him lie down on the tomb, and then he pro- 
nounced him cured. 

[Renard is sentenced to be hanged, but the King gives him his life on 
condition that he take the cross and go on a pilgrimage, only he must 
never return, "for," says the lion, "those who are good when they go 
away are bad when they come back." Renard consents, for he knows 
how to escape the punishment.] 

Beginning with pure religious enthusiasm and ending in a 
sordid exhibition of personal greed the Crusades nevertheless 
brought to Europe an awakening which may well be called a 
miracle and a blessing. In the East the semi-civilized, stay- 
at-home crusaders who had been shut up for generations with 
the unstimulating companionship of selfish broils, came in 
contact with a civilization rich in artistic production of all 
sorts. When the westerners returned to France they set about 
making their own country fair. Great cathedrals were be- 



THE GREAT AWAKENING S3 

gun, and before the end of the twelfth century Paris was 
practically rebuilt in the aspiring style that had come to be 
known as Gothic. Sculpture was wedded to architecture. 
Of painting there was little; the desire for color took form in 
the illumination of manuscripts, and in windows of glorious 
glass which made magnificent the transepts and chancels and 
naves of the churches that sent their arrow-like spires toward 
the skies. Literature was an inferior artistic expression at 
this time, yet the desire for knowledge drove men to take long 
strides. 'The eloquence of Abelard, remembered to-day for 
his love for Heloise rather than for his teaching, had stirred 
an intellectual as well as moral response in his hearers of the 
eleventh century. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries 
his successors, among whom were Duns Scotus and Roger 
Bacon, led the thinking world in their discussions of theology, 
philosophy, and science. 

Philip Augustus founded the University at Paris; and 
many others were established in the provinces. Under 
Saint Louis the Sorbonne came into being. Students flocked 
to France from the w T hole of Europe. It was a time of in- 
tellectual activity, before the vigorous, simple, self-believing 
days of feudalism degenerated and carried down with them 
their vigorous, independent thought. 

Almost symbolic of this simple past is Villehardouin 
(1155-1215), w T hose chronicles were the first original prose 
productions in French. He narrates events which he him- 
self had seen, touching them with small comment and drawing 
no conclusions, though his descriptions are lively and amus- 
ing. He is the historian of the Fourth Crusade, that early 
thirteenth century expedition of the soldiers of the cross 
which never reached the Holy Land but spent its strength in 
the conquest of Constantinople. Says the chronicler: 

After Easter and towards Whitsuntide (June, 1202) began the pil- 
grims to leave their own country. So they journeyed through Burgundy, 



54 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

and by the mountains of Mont-Joux by Montcenis, and through Lom- 
bardy, and began to assemble at Venice. 

THE PILGRIMS LACK MONEY WHEREWITH TO PAY THE VENETIANS 

* Thus did Count Lewis and the other barons wend their way to Venice; 
and they were there received with feasting and joyfully, and took lodg- 
ing in the Island of St. Nicholas with those who had come before. Goodly 
was the host, and right worthy were the men. Never did man see good- 
lier or worthier. And the Venetians held a market, rich and abundant, 
of all things needful for horses and men. And the fleet they had got ready 
was so goodly and fine that never did Christian man see one goodlier 
or finer; as well galleys as transports, and sufficient for at least three 
times as many men as were in the host. 

Ah! the grievous harm and loss when those who should have come 
thither sailed instead from other ports! Right well, if they had kept 
their tryst, would Christendom have been exalted, and the land of the 
Turks abased! The Venetians had fulfilled all their undertakings, and 
above measure, and they now summoned the barons and counts to fulfil 
theirs and make payment, since they were ready to start. 

The cost of each man's passage was now levied throughout the host; 
and there were people enough who said they could not pay for their 
passage, and the barons took from them such moneys as they had. So 
each man paid what he could. When the barons had thus claimed the 
cost of the passages, and when the payments had been collected, the 
moneys came to less than the sum due — yea, by more than one half. 

Then the barons met together and said: "Lords, the Venetians have 
well fulfilled all their undertakings, and above measure. But we cannot 
fulfil ours in paying for our passages, seeing we are too few in number; 
and this is the fault of those who have journeyed by other ports. For 
God's sake therefore let each contribute all that he has, so that we may 
fulfil our covenant; for better is it that we should give all that we have, 
than lose what we have already paid, and prove false to our covenants; 
for if this host remains here, the rescue of the land oversea comes to 
naught." 

Great was then the dissension among the main part of the barons and 
the other folk, and they said: "We have paid for our passages, and if 
they will take us, we shall go willingly; but if not, we shall inquire and 
look for other means of passage." And they spoke thus because they 
wished that the host should fall to pieces and each return to his own land. 
But the other party said, "Much rather would we give all that we have 
and go penniless with the host, than that the host should fall to pieces 
and fail; for God will doubtless repay us when it so pleases Him." 

Then the Count of Flanders began to give all that he had and all that 
he could borrow, and so did Count Lewis, and the Marquis, and the Count 
of Saint-Paul, and those who were of their party. Then might you have 
seen many a fine vessel of gold and silver borne in payment to the palace 
of the Doge. And when all had been brought together, there was still 
wanting, of the sum required, 34,000 marks of silver. Then those who 

* From the translation by Sir Frank Marzials. 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 55 

had kept back their possessions and not brought them into the common 
stock, were right glad, for they thought now surely the host must fail 
and go to pieces. But God, who advises those who have been ill-advised, 
would not so suffer it. 

THE CRUSADERS OBTAIN A RESPITE BY PROMISING TO HELP THE VENETIANS 

AGAINST ZARA 

Then the Doge spoke to his people, and said unto them: "Signors, 
these people cannot pay more; and in so far as they have paid at all, we 
have benefited by an agreement which they cannot now fulfil. But our 
right to keep this money would not everywhere be acknowledged; and 
if we so kept it we should be greatly blamed, both us and our land. Let 
us therefore offer them terms. 

"The King of Hungary has taken from us Zara in Sclavonia, which 
is one of the strongest places in the world; and never shall we recover 
it with all the power that we possess, save with the help of these people. 
Let us therefore ask them to help us to reconquer it, and we will remit 
the payment of the debt of 34,000 marks of silver, until such time as it 
shall please God to allow us to gain the moneys by conquest, we and they 
together." Thus was agreement made. Much was it contested by those 
who wished that the host should be broken up. Nevertheless the agree- 
ment was accepted and ratified. 

THE DOGE AND A NUMBER OF VENETIANS TAKE THE CROSS 

Then, on a Sunday, was assemblage held in the Church of St. Mark. 
It was a very high festival, and the people of the land were there, and 
the most part of the barons and pilgrims. 

Before the beginning of High Mass, the Doge of Venice, who bore the 
name of Henry Dandolo, went up into the reading-desk, and spoke to 
the people, and said to them: "Signors, you are associated with the most 
worthy people in the world, and for the highest enterprise ever under- 
taken; and I am a man old and feeble, who should have need of rest, 
and I am sick in body; but I see that no one could command and lead 
you like myself, who am your lord. If you will consent that I take the 
sign of the cross to guard and direct you, and that my son remain in my 
place to guard the land, then shall I go to live or die with you and with 
the pilgrims." 

And when they had heard him, they cried with one voice: "We pray 
you by God that you consent, and do it, and that you come with us!" 

Very great was then the pity and compassion on the part of the people 
of the land and of the pilgrims; and many were the tears shed, because 
that worthy and good man would have had so much reason to remain 
behind, for he was an old man, and albeit his eyes were unclouded, yet 
he saw naught, having lost his sight through a wound in the head. He 
was of a great heart. Ah! how little like him were those who had gone 
to other ports to escape the danger. 

Thus he came down from the reading-desk, and went before the altar, 
and knelt upon his knees greatly weeping. i\nd they sewed the cross 
on to a great cotton hat, which he wore, in front, because he wished that 



56 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

all men should see it. And the Venetians began to take the cross in 
great numbers, a great multitude, for up to that day very few had taken 
the cross. Our pilgrims had much joy in the cross that the Doge took, 
and were greatly moved, because of the wisdom and the valour that were 
in him. 

Thus did the Doge take the cross, as you have heard. Then the 
Venetians began to deliver the ships, the galleys, and the transports 
to the barons, for departure; but so much time had already been spent 
since the appointed term, that September drew near (1202). 

THE CRUSADERS LEAVE VENICE TO BESIEGE ZARA 

Then were the ships and transports apportioned by the barons. Ah, 
God! what fine war-horses were put therein. And when the ships were 
fulfilled with arms and provisions, and knights and sergeants, the shields 
were ranged round the bulwarks and castles of the ships, and the banners 
displayed, many and fair. 

And be it known to you that the vessels carried more than three hun- 
dred petraries and mangonels, and all such engines as are needed for the 
taking of cities, in great plenty. Never did finer fleet sail from any port. 
And this was in the octave of the Feast of St. Remigius (October) in the 
year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ twelve hundred and two. Thus 
did they sail from the port of Venice, as you have been told. 

On the Eve of St. Martin (10th November) they came before Zara 
in Sclavonia, and beheld the city enclosed by high walls and high towers; 
and vainly would you have sought for a fairer city, or one of greater 
strength, or richer. And when the pilgrims saw it, they marvelled greatly, 
and said one to another, "How could such a city be taken by force, save 
by the help of God himself? " 

The first ships that came before the city cast anchor, and waited for 
the others; and in the morning the day was very fine and very clear, and 
all the galleys came up with the transports, and the other ships which 
were behind; and they took the port by force, and broke the chain that 
defended it and was very strong and well- wrought; and they landed in 
such sort that the port was between them and the town. Then might 
you have seen many a knight and many a sergeant swarming out of the 
ships, and taking from the transports many a good war-horse, and many 
a rich tent and many a pavilion. Thus did the host encamp. And Zara 
was besieged on St. Martin's Day (nth November 1202). 

THE INHABITANTS OF ZARA OFFER TO CAPITULATE, AND THEN DRAW 
BACK — ZARA IS TAKEN 

On the day following the feast of St. Martin, certain of the people of 
Zara came forth, and spoke to the Doge of Venice, who was in his pavilion, 
and said to him that they would yield up the city and all their goods — 
their lives being spared — to his mercy. And the Doge replied that he 
would not accept these conditions, nor any conditions, save by consent 
of the counts and barons, with whom he would go and confer. 

While he went to confer with the counts and barons, that party, of 
whom you have already heard, who wished to disperse the host, spoke 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 57 

to the envoys and said, "Why should you surrender your city? The 
pilgrims will not attack you — have no care of them. If you can defend 
yourselves against the Venetians, you will be safe enough." And they 
chose one of themselves, whose name was Robert of Boves, who went 
to the walls of the city, and spoke the same words. Therefore the envoys 
returned to the city, and the negotiations were broken off. 

The Doge of Venice, when he came to the counts and barons, said to 
them: "Signors, the people who are therein desire to yield the city to my 
mercy, on condition only that their lives are spared. But I will enter into 
no agreement with them — neither this nor any other — save with your 
consent." And the barons answered: "Sire, we advise you to accept 
these conditions, and we even beg of you so to do." He said he would 
do so; and they all returned together to the pavilion of the Doge to make 
the agreement, and found that the envoys had gone away by the advice 
of those who wished to disperse the host. 

Then rose the abbot of Vaux, of the order of the Cistercians, and said 
to them: "Lords, I forbid you, on the part of the Pope of Rome, to attack 
this city; for those within it are Christians, and you are pilgrims." When 
the Doge heard this, he was very wroth, and much disturbed, and he 
said to the counts and barons: "Signors, I had this city, by their own 
agreement, at my mercy, and your people have broken that agreement; 
you have covenanted to help me to conquer it, and I summon you 
to do so." 

Whereon the counts and barons all spoke at once, together with those 
who were of their party, and said: " Great is the outrage of those who have 
caused this agreement to be broken, and never a day has passed that 
they have not triedto break up the host. Now are we shamed if we do 
not help to take the city." And they came to the Doge, and said: " Sire, 
we will help you to take the city in despite of those who would let and 
hinder us." 

Thus was the decision taken. The next morning the host encamped 
before the gates of the city, and set up their petraries and mangonels, 
and other engines of war, which they had in plenty, and on the side of 
the sea they raised ladders from the ships. Then they began to throw 
stones at the walls of the city and at the towers. So did the assault 
last for about five days. Then were the sappers set to mine one of the 
towers, and began to sap the wall. When those within the city saw this, 
they proposed an agreement, such as they had before refused by the 
advice of those who wished to break up the host. 

About a century later De Joinville, seneschal of Cham- 
pagne, wrote in his old age a volume of recollections of 
Louis IX. He went with the King upon the Crusade of 1248, 
and he tells with the directness and charm of a simple nature 
the experiences of the expedition as they touched his com- 
panions and especially his master. Louis was his friend as 
well as his sovereign and their relation was one of frankness 



58 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

and affection. In the beginning of his Chronicle De Joinville 
describes 

THE PRINCIPAL VIRTUES OF ST. LEWIS 

* In the name of God Almighty, I, John, Lord of Joinville, seneschal 
of Champagne, dictate the life of our holy King Lewis; that which I saw 
and heard by the space of six years that I was in his company on pil- 
grimage oversea, and that which I saw and heard after we returned. 
And before I tell you of his great deeds, and of his prowess, I will tell 
you what I saw and heard of his good teachings and of his holy words, 
so that these may be found here set in order for the edifying of those who 
shall hear thereof. 

This holy man loved God with all his heart, and followed Him in His 
acts; and this appeared in that, as God died for the love He bore His 
people, so did the king put his body in peril, and that several times, for 
the love he bore to his people; and such peril he might well have avoided, 
as you shall be told hereafter. 

The great love that he bore to his people appeared in what he said 
during a very sore sickness that he had at Fontainebleau, unto my Lord 
Lewis, his eldest son. "Fair son," he said, "I pray thee to make thy- 
self beloved of the people of thy kingdom; for truly I would rather that 
a Scot should come out of Scotland and govern the people of the kingdom 
well and equitably than that thou shouldest govern it ill in the sight of 
all men." The holy king so loved truth, that, as you shall hear hereafter, 
he would never consent to lie to the Saracens as to any covenant that 
he had made with them. 

Of his mouth he was so sober, that on no day of my life did I ever hear 
him order special meats, as many rich men are wont to do; but he ate 
patiently whatever his cooks had made ready, and was set before him. 
In his words he was temperate; for on no day of my life did I ever hear 
him speak evil of any one; nor did I ever hear him name the Devil — 
which name is very commonly spoken throughout the kingdom, whereby 
God, as I believe, is not well pleased. 

He put water into his wine by measure, according as he saw that the 
strength of the wine would suffer it. At Cyprus he asked me why I put 
no water into my wine; and I said this was by order of the physicians, 
who told me I had a large head and a cold stomach, so that I could not 
get drunk. And he answered that they deceived me; for if I did not 
learn to put water into my wine in my youth, and wished to do so in my 
old age, gout and diseases of the stomach would take hold upon me, and 
I should never be in health; and if I drank pure wine in my old age, I 
should get drunk every night, and that it was too foul a thing for a brave 
man to get drunk. 

He asked me if I wished to be honoured in this world, and to go into 
paradise at my death? And I said, "Yes." And he said: "Keep your- 
self then from knowingly doing or saying anything which, if the whole 
world heard thereof, you would be ashamed to acknowledge, saying 
'I did this,' or 'I said that/" He told me to beware not to contradict 

* From the translation by Sir Frank Marzials. 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 59 

or impugn anything that was said before me — unless indeed silence would 
be a sin or to my own hurt — because hard words often move to quarrel- 
ling, wherein men by the thousand have found death. 

He said that men ought to clothe and arm their bodies in such wise 
that men of worth and age would never say, this man has done too much, 
nor young men say, this man has done too little. And I repeated this 
saying to the father of the king that now is, when speaking of the em- 
broidered coats of arms that are made nowadays; and I told him that 
never, during our voyage oversea, had I seen embroidered coats, either 
belonging to the king or to any one else. iVnd the king that now is told 
me that he had such suits, with arms embroidered, as had cost him eight 
hundred pounds parisis. And I told him he would have employed the 
money to better purpose if he had given it to God, and had had his suits 
made of good taffeta (satin) ornamented with his arms, as his father had 
done. 

BIRTH AND CORONATION OF ST. LEWIS 

In the name of God Almighty, we have, hereinbefore, written out a 
part of the good words and of the good teachings of our saintly King 
Lewis, so that those who read may find them set in order, the one after 
the other, and thus derive more profit therefrom than if they were set 
forth among his deeds. And from this point we begin, in the name of 
God and in his own name, to speak of his deeds. 

As I have heard tell he was born on the day of St. Mark the Evangel- 
ist, after Easter (25th April 12 14). On that day crosses are, in many 
places, carried in procession, and, in France, these are called black crosses; 
and this was as it were a prophecy of the great number of people who were 
to die in the two Crusades, viz., that of Egypt, and the other, in which 
he himself died, at Carthage, whereby there were great mournings in 
this world, and many great rejoicings in paradise for such as in these 
two pilgrimages died true Crusaders. 

He was crowned on the first Sunday in Advent (29th November, 1226). 
The beginning of the mass for that Sunday runs: Ad te levavi animam 
meam, and what follows after; and this means, "Fair Lord God, I shall 
lift up my soul to thee, I put rny confidence in thee." In God had he 
great confidence from his childhood to his death; for when he died, in 
his last words, he called upon God and His saints, and specially upon 
my lord St. James and my lady St. Genevieve. 

When the King took the cross his lords followed his example in great 
numbers. The chronicler tells 

HOW THE CRUSADERS EMBARK, AUGUST, 1 248 

In the month of August we entered into our ship at the Roche-de- 
Marseille. On the day that we entered into our ship, they opened the 
door of the ship and put therein all the horses we were to take oversea; 
and then they reclosed the door, and caulked it well, as when a cask is 
sunk in water, because, when the ship is on the high seas, all the said 
door is under water. 

When the horses were in the ship, our master mariner called to his 



60 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

seamen, who stood at the prow, and said: "Are you ready?" and they 
answered, "Aye, sir — let the clerks and priests come forward!" As soon 
as these had come forward, he called to them, "Sing, for God's sake!" 
and they all, with one voice, chanted: " Veni Creator Spiritus." 

Then he cried to his seamen, "Unfurl the sails, for God's sake!" and 
they did so. 

In a short space the wind rilled our sails and had borne us out of sight 
of land, so that we saw naught save sky and water, and every day the 
wind carried us further from the land where we were born. And these 
things I tell you, that you may understand how foolhardy is that man 
who dares, having other's chattels in his possession, or being in mortal 
sin, to place himself in such peril, seeing that, when you lie down to sleep 
at night on shipboard, you lie down not knowing whether, in the morning, 
you may find yourself at the bottom of the sea. 

At sea a singular marvel befell us; for we came across a mountain, 
quite round, before the coast of Barbary. We came across it about the 
hour of vespers, and sailed all night, and thought to have gone about 
fifty leagues; and, on the morrow, we found ourselves before the same 
mountain; and this same thing happened to us some two or three times. 
When the sailors saw this, they were all amazed, and told us we were in 
very great peril; for we were nigh unto the land of the Saracens of Bar- 
bary. 

Then spake a certain right worthy priest, who was called the Dean 
of Maurupt; and he told us that never had any mischance occurred in his 
parish — whether lack of water, or overplus of rain, or any other mis- 
chance — but so soon as he had made three processions, on three Satur- 
days, God and His mother sent them deliverance. It was then a Saturday. 
We made the first procession round the two masts of the ship. I had 
myself carried in men's arms, because I was grievously sick. Never again 
did we see the mountain; and on the third Saturday we came to Cyprus. 

Here is one of the crusaders' experiences in Egypt: 

GREEK EIRE HURLED AGAINST THE TOWERS THAT GUARDED 
THE COVERED WAYS 

One night when we were keeping guard over the towers that guarded 
the covered ways, it happened that the Saracens brought an engine called 
a petrary, which they had not hitherto done, and put Greek fire into the 
sling of the engine. When my Lord Walter of Ecurey, the good knight 
who was with me, saw it, he spoke thus: "Lords, we are in the greatest 
peril that we have ever been in, for if they set fire to our towers and we 
remain here we are but lost and burnt up; while if we leave these defences 
which we have been set to guard, we are dishonoured. Wherefore none 
can defend us in this peril save God alone. So my advice and counsel 
is, that every time they hurl the fire at us, we throw ourselves on our 
elbows and knees, and pray to our Saviour to keep us in this peril." 

So soon as they hurled the first cast, we threw ourselves on our elbows 
and knees as he had taught us. That first cast fell between our two 
towers guarding the covered ways. It fell on the place in front of us, 
where the host had been working at the dam. Our firemen were ready 
to put out the fire; and because the Saracens could not shoot straight 



THE GREAT AWAKENING 6 1 

at them, because of two pavilion wings that the king had caused to be 
set up, they shot up into the clouds, so that the darts fell on the tire- 
men's heads. 

The fashion of the Greek fire was such that it came frontwise as large 
as a barrel of verjuice, and the tail of fire that issued from it was as large 
as a large lance. The noise it made in coming was like heaven's thunder. 
It had the seeming of a dragon flying through the air. It gave so great 
a light, because of the great foison of fire making the light, that one saw 
as clearly throughout the camp as if it had been day. Three times did 
they hurl Greek fire at us that night (from the petraries), and four times 
with the swivel crossbow. 

Every time that our saintly king heard them hurling the Greek fire, 
he would raise himself in his bed, and lift up his hands to our Saviour, 
and say, weeping: "Fair Lord God, guard me my people!" And verily 
I believe that his prayers did us good service in our need. At night, every 
time the fire had fallen, he sent one of his chamberlains to ask how we 
fared, and whether the fire had done us any hurt. 

Once when they hurled it at us, the fire fell near the tower which the 
people of my Lord of Courtenay were guarding, and struck the bank 
of the stream. Then, look you, a knight, whose name was l'Aubigoiz, 
came to me, and said, "Lord, if you do not come to our help we shall all 
be burned; for the Saracens have shot so many of their shafts that it is 
as if a great hedge were coming burning against our tower." We sprang 
up, and went thither, and found he spoke sooth. We put out the fire, 
and before we had put it out, the Saracens had struck us all with shafts 
that they shot across the stream. 

Marking the advent of the new subjective spirit in life 
and letters is the composition of the " Romance of the 
Rose/ 7 begun in the middle of the thirteenth century by 
Guillaume de Lorris and finished forty years later by 
Jean de Meung. The plot, as blocked out by de Lorris, 
follows the idea of Ovid's "Art of Love." It relates the 
difficulties of the Lover, symbolizing Love, in winning the 
Rose, symbolizing Beauty. Evils — Hypocrisy, Hatred, 
Jealousy and the like — oppose the Lover, while working for 
him are Youth and Generosity and Courtesy and their 
friends. The course of true love ran with its usual roughness, 
and before the lover could win his bride the second author 
undertook the recital of his fortunes and introduced an en- 
tirely new tone to the story. For several thousand lines 
Jean de Meung wrote on such themes as were of interest to a 
scholar of his time. Philosophical and scientific discussion, 



62 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

and a liberality of allusions to classical literature make it a 
sort of compendium of the learning of the day, while its ele- 
vated moral and religious tone, its common sense, and its 
worldly wisdom placed it among the popular guides to living 
for the next three centuries. All France knew it and quoted 
it and even Chaucer wrote a translation of over seven thou- 
sand lines. Following is de Lorris's description of 

* THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE 

In heart of man 
Malice she plants, and labor, and pain; 
One hour caresses, and smiles, and plays; 
Then as suddenly changes her face: 
Laughs one moment, the next she mourns; 
Round and round her wheel she turns, 
All at her own caprice and will. 
The lowest ascends and is raised until 
He who was highest was low on the ground, 
And the wheel of fortune has quite turned round. 

Here is Jean de Meung's idea of a gentleman: 

* Let him who gentleman would be, 
From sloth and idleness keep free; 
In arms and study be employed, 
So that not too much trust be laid 
In woman's faith. So may he steer 
Of this great danger wholly clear. 

Know all, that gentle blood may bring 

No benefit, or any thing, 

Except what each man's worth may give. 

Know, also, none of all that live 

Can ask for honor, praise or blame, 

By reason of another's name. 

* Translated by Walter Besant. % 



CHAPTER W 
WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 

The thirteenth century stands out as the most brilliant in 
France's mediaeval history. It achieved that position 
chiefly through the strength of two forceful kings, Philip 
Augustus, who ruled from 1180 to 1223, and Louis IX — 
St. Louis — whose reign lasted from 1226 to 1270. Such long 
periods of pow r er gave opportunity for the development of 
any policy pushed perseveringly, and both these men worked 
toward a definite end. Philip's policy was twofold. First, 
he wanted to enlarge his territory, which was then but a 
small part of its present size — and in his time Normandy 
was conquered, the crusade against the Albigenses reduced 
not only the city of Albi but a large part of southern France, 
and Flanders fell to the royal sword. He wanted to increase 
his personal authority — and he took various measures to 
check the power of the barons and the clergy, while at the 
same time encouraging the free towns with their middle class 
devoted to his interests. Philip's methods were dictated by 
a desire to fulfill the vision of a united kingdom that no king 
of France had seen since Charlemagne; St. Louis, more 
single-minded than his grandfather, pursued similar methods 
of concentration because it was his sincere belief that the 
welfare of his people was bettered the more the power was 
centralized in the royal person. 

Apart from the personalities of Philip and of Louis, the 
century had in itself certain qualities that make for brilliancy. 
It was a time of high thought and of sincere belief. Feu- 
dalism and chivalry still meant loyalty and uplift, and the call 

63 



64 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

of the crusades was a summons to sacrifice for righteousness' 
sake. It was an age of ideals that fostered art in its every 
expression. 

The beginning of the fourteenth century found France 
restless under the selfish misrule of a weak king who was 
seeking at every step to thwart the barons, to wring money 
from the clergy and to use the middle class as a tool to aid 
him now against one, now against the other of his civil foes. 
Pope Boniface entered into Philip The Fair's quarrel with the 
clergy, and by way of strengthening himself against the 
Holy Father the king, in 1302, summoned to the Cathedral 
of Notre Dame at Paris the First National Assembly. It was 
called the "States General," because, for the first time in the 
history of any such body in France it included not only 
representatives from the nobles and clergy but also from the 
Third Estate, the citizens of towns (burghers or bourgeois). 
Had this establishment been allowed to develop like the 
House of Commons in England the cruel climax of the 
eighteenth century might, perhaps, have been averted, but 
in the space of nearly five centuries between the founding of 
the States General and the outbreak of the Revolution the 
Assembly was summoned but thirteen times. Even when 
it did convene the system of voting by classes allowed the 
nobles and clergy, who were naturally allied against the 
commonalty, to outvote it in every instance. 

Philip's quarrel with the church led to the enforced resi- 
dence of the popes for seventy years at Avignon where they 
could be under the king's supervision, and to the destruction 
of the Order of the Knights Templars, originally founded to 
protect pilgrims to the Holy Land and now abundantly rich 
in estates which the king coveted. 

Because of their possessions in France the English kings 
had long been vassals of the French kings, and when Charles 
IV died, leaving no heir, his nephew, Edward III of England, 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 65 

claimed the throne. This demand was the long awaited 
excuse for a declaration of hostilities and in 1357 the Hundred 
Years' War began. 

Its weary length was marked by a few outstanding events 
— the battle of Crecy, where gunpowder was used for the 
first time, won by the English over the French mercenary 
troops imported from Italy; the siege of Calais, whose fall 
gave the English an ever-open entrance to France; the 
battle of Poitiers, in which the Black Prince captured King 
John and sent him to London; the battle of Agincourt which 
in its after effects won for Henry V a French wife and for 
their son a French crown. 

This coronation availed the English nothing, however, for 
the real French king, Charles VII, aided by Jeanne Dare of 
Domremy, defeated the English and their allies, the Bur- 
gundians, and the victories so heartened the French that 
they swept their foes from the country with only Calais left 
to show for all their conquests. 

The condition of any land which is the scene of war is 
bound to be one of wretchedness, and for five score years 
France knew a misery seemingly unending. Her fields were 
devastated, robbers roamed unchecked, the armies con- 
sumed the little that was raised, and plague followed famine, 
while uncertainty as to the movements of the enemy and 
civil dissensions stirred a constant ferment of anxiety. On the 
peasant, nicknamed Jacques Bonhomme, fell, as always, the 
greatest suffering, and in the middle of the century he rose 
against his masters in an insurrection — the Jacquerie — that 
gained for him at home nothing but greater suffering, though 
he won the sympathy of his kind in England where Wat 
Tyler headed an insurrection a few years later, and in Ger- 
many where the story of the peasant uprising betrays the 
same condition of feudal cruelty. 

This was the century that produced Chaucer and Wycliffe 



66 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

in England and Huss in Germany. France has no such 
names to boast. This period followed the richest years of the 
middle ages, but its busy happenings left little time for the 
pursuit of anything but war and necessarily falls far below 
its predecessor in artistic excellence as it does in general 
spirit. A certain youthful courage and brilliancy evident in 
the earlier feudal days grew depressed and bedraggled as the 
royal authority increased; the political gains of the bourgeois 
were but nominal; the peasants were wretched. Under such 
circumstances there could be no originality; the arts drooped, 
painting almost ceasing to exist, architecture entering upon 
the decadence of the Gothic which resulted in the over- 
elaboration of the Flamboyant style, and letters showing 
hardly more than a few serious writers, and a few singers from 
among those invincibly light-hearted people who will be 
cheerful no matter what happens. 

The best known literary name of the fourteenth century is 
Froissart (1337-1411). He was a historian of the old 
school, a chronicler pure and simple, who did not search for 
causes and did not draw conclusions, but set down events as 
they happened. To such a writer perspective is not necessary. 
He can speak as well of the war going on around him as of 
peace — better, perhaps, for its events are less complex. It 
must have seemed to Froissart that the world was full of 
fighting, for he was born in the year when war was declared 
with England, he never knew France at peace, and he lived 
long in England, while Edward III was struggling with Scot- 
land. He tells it all in simple, direct narrative that paints 
a vivid picture. Here is his account of the capture of the 
French King John at the battle of Poitiers. 

* The English continued the pursuit of the enemy even to the city of 
Poitiers, where there was great slaughter, both of men and horses, for the 
inhabitants had shut the gates, and would suffer none to enter. The Lord 

* Translated by Johncs; adapted by Dunster. 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 67 

of Pons, a powerful baron of Poitou, was there slain. During the whole 
engagement the Lord de Chargny, who was near the king, and carried 
the royal banner, fought most bravely; the English and Gascons, how- 
ever, poured so fast upon the king's division, that they broke through the 
ranks by force, and in the confusion the Lord de Chargny was slain, with 
the banner of France in his hand. There was now eagerness manifested to 
take the king; and those who were nearest to him, and knew him, cried 
out, " Surrender yourself, surrender yourself, or you are a dead man." In 
this part of the field was a young knight from St. Omer, engaged in the 
service of the King of England, whose name was Denys de Morbeque; 
for three years he had attached himself to the English, on account of 
having been banished from France in his younger days for a murder com- 
mitted during an affray at St. Omer. Now it fortunately happened for 
this knight, that he was at the time near to the King of France, to whom 
he said in good French, "Sire, sire, surrender yourself." The king, who 
found himself very disagreeably situated, turning to him asked, "To 
whom shall I surrender myself? Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales? 
if I could see him I would speak to him." "Sire," replied Sir Denys, 
"he is not here; but surrender yourself to me, and I will lead you to him." 
"Who are you?" said the king. "Sire, I am Denys de Morbeque, a 
knight from Artois; but I serve the King of England because I cannot be- 
long to France, having forfeited all I possessed there." The king then 
gave him his right-hand glove, and said, "I surrender myself to you." 

The Prince of Wales, who was as courageous as a lion, took great de- 
light that day in combating his enemies. Sir John Chandos, who was 
near his person, and indeed had never quitted it during the whole of the 
engagement, nor stopped to make any prisoners, said to him towards the 
end of the battle, "Sir, it will be proper for you to halt here, and plant 
your banner on the top of this bush, which will serve to rally your forces, 
as they seem very much scattered; for I do not see any banners or pen- 
nons of the French, or any considerable bodies able to rally against us, 
and you must refresh yourself a little, for I perceive you are very much 
heated." Upon this the banner of the prince was placed on a high bush, 
the minstrels began to play, and the trumpets and clarions to do their 
duty. The prince took off his helmet, and the knights attendant on his 
person were soon ready, and pitched a small pavilion of crimson colour, 
which he entered. As soon as the prince's marshals were come back, 
he asked them if they knew anything of the King of France. They re- 
plied, "No, sir, nothing for a certainty, but we believe he must be either 
killed or made prisoner, since he has never quitted his battalion." The 
prince, then addressing the Earl of Warwick and Lord Cobham, said, 



68 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"I beg of you to mount your horses and ride over the field, so that on 
your return you may bring me some certain intelligence respecting him." 
The two barons immediately mounting their horses left the prince, and 
made for a small hillock that they might look about them; from this 
position they perceived a crowd of men-at-arms on foot, advancing very 
slowly. The King of France was in the midst of them, and in great dan- 
ger, for the English and Gascons had taken him from Sir Denys de Mor- 
beque, and were disputing who should have him; some bawling out, "It 
is I that have got him; " "No, no," replied others, " we have him." The 
king, to escape from this perilous situation, said, " Gentlemen, gentle- 
men, I pray you to conduct me and my son, in a courteous manner, to 
my cousin the prince, and do not make so great a riot about my capture, 
for I am a great lord, and I can make all sufficiently rich." These words, 
and others which fell from the king, appeased them a little; but the dis- 
putes were always beginning again, and the men did not move a step 
without rioting. When the two barons saw this troop of people they 
descended from the hillock, and sticking spurs into their horses, made up 
to them. On their arrival they asked what was the matter, and were 
informed that the King of France had been made prisoner, and that up- 
wards of ten knights and squires challenged him at the same time as be- 
longing to each of them. The two barons then pushed through the crowd 
by main force, and ordered all to draw aside. They commanded in the 
name of the prince, and under pain of instant death, that every one should 
keep his distance, and none approach unless ordered so to do. All then 
retreated behind the king, and the two barons, dismounting, advanced 
to the royal prisoner with profound reverence, and conducted him in a 
peaceable manner to the Prince of Wales. 

Lord James Audley had not long left the prince's presence, when the 
Earl of Warwick and Lord Reginald Cobham entered the pavilion and 
presented the King of France to him. The prince made a very low obei- 
sance to the king, and gave him all the comfort as he was able. He 
ordered wine and spices to be brought, which, as a mark of his great 
affection, he presented to the king himself. 

Thus was this battle won, as you have heard related, on the plains of 
Maupertuis, two leagues from the city of Poitiers, on the 19th day of 
September, 1356. The victory brought much wealth to the English, 
for there were large quantities of gold and silver plate, and rich jewels 
in the French camp. Indeed, the loss on the part of the French was very 
great; besides the king, his son Lord Philip, seventeen earls, and others 
who were taken prisoners, it is reported that five or six thousand were 
left dead on the field. When evening came the Prince of Wales enter- 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 69 

tained his royal prisoner at supper with marked attention. The next 
day the English left Poitiers and advanced to Bordeaux, where they 
passed the winter in feasting and merriment. In England, when the 
news arrived of the battle of Poitiers, and of the defeat of the French, 
there were great rejoicings, solemn thanksgivings were offered up in all 
the churches, and bonfires made in every town and village. 

If, however, the kingdom of England and its allies were much delighted 
at the success of their armies, and the capture of the King of France, 
that realm was sorely troubled and vexed, and, indeed, it had good cause 
to be so; all the flower of its chivalry was gone, and the three sons of the 
king who escaped the battle were so young and inexperienced that they 
were quite unfit to govern. Many conferences were held respecting the 
state of public affairs, and much distress and discontent were manifested. 
At length the three estates resolved to choose each twelve counsellors, 
who should confer together for the better government of the kingdom, 
and send out men-at-arms, to stop, if possible, the ravages of the English. 
In an encounter with these troops the brave Sir Godfrey de Harcourt 
met his death. When winter was over and the season was sufficiently 
advanced for travelling, the prince made preparations for quitting 
Bordeaux, and for conducting the French king and his principal prison- 
ers to England, leaving behind him several of his own knights to guard 
the cities and towns which he had taken. After a long and tedious 
voyage he and his retinue, together with the captured monarch, arrived 
at Sandwich, disembarked, and proceeded to Canterbury. When the 
King of England was informed of this, he gave orders to the citizens 
of London to make such preparations as were suitable for the reception 
of so mighty a person as the King of France. 

The prince and his royal charge remained one day at Canterbury, 
where they made their offerings to the shrine of St. Thomas, and the 
next morning proceeded to Rochester, the third day to Dartford, and 
the fourth to London, where they were received with much honour and 
distinction. The King of France, as he rode through London, was 
mounted on a white steed, with very rich furniture, and the Prince of 
Wales on a little black hackney by his side. The palace of the Savoy 
was first appropriated to the French king's use; but soon after his ar- 
rival he was removed to Windsor Castle, where he was treated with the 
greatest possible attention, and hunting, hawking, and other amuse- 
ments were provided for him. 

Froissart's gift for verse-making has been mentioned be- 
fore. Here is a triolet of his composition. 



70 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

* Take time while yet it is in view, 

For fortune is a fickle fair, 
Days fade and others spring anew; 
Then take the moment still in view 
What boots to toil and cares pursue? 

Each month a new moon hangs in air: 
Take then, the moment still in view 

For fortune is a fickle fair. 

Like Froissart in the variety of her talents is Christine de 
Pisan. She, too, was a historian, she wrote verse, she took 
Jean de Meung to task for his aspersions upon the character 
of women in the " Romance of the Rose," she wrote essays 
of a didactic tone. Born in Venice in 1363 she spent her life 
at the court of France after she was five years old. She was 
widowed at twenty-five and thereafter supported herself by 
her pen. A quaint old print shows her inspired in her writing 
by the virtues of Reason, Honesty, and Justice, and another 
portrays her in the act of presenting one of her books to 
King Charles VI. Here is an example of her verse. 

RONDEL 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

I live in hopes of better days, 

And leave the present hour to chance, 
Although so long my wish delays, 

And still recedes as I advance; 
Although hard fortune, too severe, 

My life in mourning weeds arrays, 
Nor in gay haunts may I appear, 

I live in hopes of better days. 

Though constant care my fortune prove, 

By long endurance patient grown, 
Still with the time my wishes move, 

Within my breast no murmur known: 
Whate'er my adverse lot displays, 

I live in hopes of better days. 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 71 

A manuscript letter addressed to Queen Isabel of Bavaria 
is preserved in the National Library at Paris, and gives an 
instance of Christine de Pisan's didactic expression. 

Again I tell you that just as the queen of heaven, mother of God, is 
called mother of all chastity, so ought every wise and good queen to be 
called mother and comforter, and advocate of her subjects and her people. 
Alas! who would be so hard a mother as to endure, unless she had a heart 
of stone, seeing her children half-killed and shedding each other's blood 
and maiming and tearing their poor members, and then seeing strange 
enemies fall upon them unawares to persecute them mightily and seize 
their heritages. For there is no doubt that the enemies of the kingdom, 
delighted at this adventure, would come from abroad with a large army 
to annihilate them. Ah, God, what a distress that so noble a kingdom 
should be destroyed and that such chivalry should perish! And, alas, 
how true it is that the poor must pay for sins of which they are innocent, 
and that the poor little sucklings and small children should cry after 
their weary mothers, widowed and grief stricken, dying of hunger; and 
that they, deprived of their property, should have nothing wherewith 
to appease them; whose voices as the Scriptures relate in several places, 
through very pity pierce the heavens before just God and bring down 
vengeance upon those who are the cause of it. 

Contemporary with Froissart and Chaucer was Eustache 
Deschamps (1340-1410), a man of obscure birth, but well 
educated, who became attached to the person of Charles V. 
His poetry, written in all the much-loved lyric forms, gives 
an admirable picture of the daily living of the time, deploring 
the laziness of young men, the frivolity of women, and the 
intrusive characteristics of mothers-in-law. In the king he 
saw every virtue. That he could be both graceful and didactic 
the poems below testify. 

ASCENSION DAY 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

When shall the day be, of all the year, 
The day that the maidens may call their own, 

When everyone in her newest gear, 
The gayest ribbons, the richest gown, 
Laughter and joy shall give to the town? 



72 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

'Tis in the spring, so bright and gay, 
In the pleasantest month, the Month of May, 
And the maidens' day is Ascension Day. 

On this day of the joyous Spring, 

Should every maiden be dressed in green, 
When at break of day the Church bells ring; 

Spread out the feast with napkins clean; 

Let all the Spring's best gifts be seen; 
Spread out the feast with flowers gay; 
'Tis the pleasantest month, the month of May, 

And this is Ascension, the maidens' day. 

Beauty the maidens typify; 

Spring's simple food, our hearts' content; 
The napkins white, our purity; 

The green grass, friendship's firmament; 

The flowers their joyousness have lent. 
All perfect joy doth come with May; 
Blithely sing and dance so gay, 

For this is Ascension, the maidens' day. 

DUTY OF WORK 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

In lover or in Knighthood; in fray or in hall; 

In labor afield at the plough or the tree; 
In robe of the judge, or as king over all, 

In coarse dress of toil on the shore or the sea; 
Be it far — be it near — the conclusion of toil, 

Let each bear his burden the length of his day, 
Nor for weariness' sake let his handiwork spoil; 

Do all that thou hast to do, happen what may. 

Deschamps is also the author of the famous fable of the 
mice who want to bell the cat. 

Out of the misery and the horror of the fourteenth century 
and the first part of the fifteenth, the latter half of the fif- 
teenth century emerged with happier prospects for growth 
than might have been expected. The triumphant ending of 
the Hundred Years' War (1453) renewed the courage and 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 73 

hope of the people, and in the blessed calm of peace they did 
not see the increase of power which had come to the king 
through several channels. Feudal custom had made the 
sovereign dependent upon his barons for the furnishing of 
soldiers for the army, but towards the end of the long war 
Charles VII did what Diaz did in Mexico when he established 
the Rural Police — he converted into a standing army the 
robbers and adventurers who were preying upon the country, 
thus giving them a legitimate outlet for their energy and 
providing himself with a force which made him independent 
of the lords. Further, the ranks of the nobility had been 
greatly depleted during the war, and many estates had fallen 
into the crown, while the king was also made the guardian of 
many minors whose fathers had fallen on the field, and he 
thus gained control of their persons and their property. The 
three classes of people, nobles, clergy, and bourgeois, were 
politically distinct, but the feeling of unity which began when 
the crusades brought the pilgrims in contact with other na- 
tions grew into a national sentiment when many of the dis- 
tricts of France were fighting together against a common foe. 
With Louis XI, whose reign of twenty-two years followed 
soon after the declaration of peace, the modern history of 
France really begins because his methods were modern. He 
was beset on all sides by foreign enemies and by rebellious 
nobles, and to the crude and open methods that were a relic 
of feudalism he opposed the less obvious, the more subtle 
methods of a mind fertile in schemes, farseeing and none too 
honest. After a long struggle he practically consolidated 
France, standing triumphantly upon the' ruins of famous 
houses which he had destroyed. The lower classes trusted 
him, for he made good roads and protected them so that 
travel was safe and trade encouraged. To him must be given 
the credit of establishing a postoffice of a restricted sort, and 
of trying to have uniform weights and measures. Mentally 



74 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

alert himself he encouraged like ability in others and was 
democratic in his bestowal of favors upon worth rather than 
position. He established universities, he encouraged the art 
of engraving, which had been discovered in 1423; he per- 
mitted three Germans who had learned how to print from 
Gutenberg himself to establish their presses at the Sorbonne 
in 1469, five years before Caxton printed the first book in 
England. When the capture of Constantinople by the Turks 
dispersed the students of the East he welcomed into the 
University the learned men who came to Paris, and encour- 
aged the "new learning" which was rather the " novel" 
learning since it was but the classics whose introduction to 
the West was a novelty. 

Under Louis's successor, Charles VIII, the peasantry 
gained representation in the States General, so that after 
1484 the Third Estate means bourgeois and peasant com- 
bined. This same king began the expeditions into Italy 
which were of little political importance, but which brought 
to France that knowledge of Italian art and letters which 
later changed her whole artistic expression. 

At the end of the century came the discovery of the New 
World, touching every imagination to dreams of mysterious 
lands and gallant adventures. 

It is natural that the literary output of this troubled time 
should not be great — should be less, if anything, than that of 
the first part of the struggle with England because the coun- 
try was exhausted mentally as well as physically by war and 
civil dissension. There were long chronicles, interesting to 
the student of history; there were some moral reflections for 
which the circumstances of the day gave ample excuse; there 
was oratory, both clerical and lay, provoked by these same 
circumstances; there was a new stage of the romance, more 
suggestive of the modern novel, though without any psycho- 
logical element as yet; and there were the lyric poets who 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 75 

sang through thick and thin and whose reward came in the 
fame that has kept their names alive for five centuries. 

Among these poets Alain Chartier (1390-1457) holds 
an honored place, more for the elevation of his sentiments 
and the loftiness of his expression than for his workmanship. 
He wrote on love, on patriotism, and on moral themes, and 
he achieved an enormous popularity. Tradition has it that 
Margaret of Scotland, married to the dauphin, afterwards 
Louis XI, once kissed him as he slept, explaining to her 
attendants that she was not drawn by his external attractions 
— he was called the ugliest man in France — but that she 
wished to salute the mouth "whence had issued such golden 
words." 

Chaucer is believed to have made this translation of 
Chartier's 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY 

The bordes were spread in right little space, 

The ladies sat each as hem seemed best, 
There were no deadly seruants in the place, 

But chosen men, right of the goodliest: 
And some there were, perauenture most freshest, 

That saw their judges full demure, 
Without semblaunt, either to most or lest, 

Notwithstanding they had hem vnder cure. 

Emong all other, one I gan espy, 

Which in great thoughtful often came and went, 
As one that had been rauished vtterly: 

In his language not greatly diligent, 
His countenance he kept with great turment, 

But his desire farre passed his reason, 
For euer his eye went after his entent, 

Full many a time, whan it was no season. 

To make chere sore himself e he pained, 

And outwardly he fained great gladnesse, 
To sing also by force he was constrained, 

For no pleasaunce, but very shamefastnesse: 



76 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

For the complaint of his most heauinesse 
Came to his voice, alway without request, 

Like as the soune of birdes doth expresse, 
Whan they sing loud in frith or in forrest. 

Other there were that serued in the hall, 

But none like him, as after mine aduise, 
For he was pale, and somewhat lean withall, 

His speech also trembled in fearfull wise, 
And auer alone, but whan he did seruise, 

All blacke he ware, and no deuise but plain: 
Me thought by him, as my wit could sufiise, 

His herte was nothing in his own demain. 

To feast hem all he did his dilligence, 

And well he coud, right as it seemed me, 
But euermore, whan he was in presence, 

His chere was done, it nolde none other be: 
His schoolemaister had such auchthorite, 

That, all the while he bode still in the place, 
Speake could he not, but upon her beautie 

He looked still with a right pitous face. 



To this lady he came full courtisly, 

Whan he thought time to dance with her a trace, 
Set in an herber, made full pleasantly, . 

They rested hem fro theno but a little space: 
Night hem were none of a certain compace, 

But onely they, so farre as I coud see: 
Saue the traile, there I had chose my place, 

There was no more between hem two and me. 



Full oftentimes to speak himself he pained, 

But shamefastnesse and drede said euer nay, 
Yet at the last, so sore he was constrained 

Whan he full long had put it in delay, 
To his lady right thus than gan he say, 

With dredeful voice, weeping, half in a rage: 
"For me was purueyed an unhappy day, 

Whan I first had a sight of your visage!" 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS GAME 77 

Chartier's prose style was better than his verse and won 
him the nickname of the " Father of Eloquence." He allows 
himself a wide range in prose, from an allegory wherein the 
Nobility, the Clergy, the Commonalty and the Peasantry 
discuss the Hundred Years' War to a "Book of Four Ladies" 
who have lost their lovers in different ways at the battle of 
Agincourt and who confer as to which is, in consequence, the 
most miserable. 

Owing to this same battle France lost to England for thirty 
years a most graceful poet in Charles, Duke of Orleans 
(1391-1465), father of Louis XII. Charles diverted the 
years of his captivity by writing verse of the lighter lyric 
forms, and after his return to France he gathered about him 
in Blois a group of writers of congenial tastes. Here is a 

SONG 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

Wilt thou be mine? dear love, reply, — 
Sweetly consent, or else deny; 
Whisper softly, none shall know, — 
Wilt thou be mine, love? ay or no? 

Spite of fortune we may be 
Happy by one word from thee: 
Life flies swiftly; ere it go, 
Wilt thou be mine, love? — ay or no? 

*THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES 
(Addressed to his deceased wife } who died at the age of twenty-two) 

To make my lady's obsequies 

My love a minster wrought, 
And, in the chantry, service there 

Was sung by doleful thought; 
The tapers were of burning sighs, 

That light and odor gave: 

• Translated by Henry Francis Cary. 



78 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, 

Eulumined her grave; 
And round about, in quaintest guise, 
Was carved: " Within this tomb there lie9 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 

Above her lieth spread a tomb 

Of gold and sapphires blue: 
The gold doth show her blessedness, 

TJie sapphires mark her true; 
For blessedness and truth in her 

Were livelily portrayed, 
When gracious God with both his hands 

Her goodly substance made 
He framed her in such wondrous wise, 
She was, to speak without disguise, 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

No more, no more ! my heart doth faint 
When I the life recall 

Of her who lived so free from taint, 
So virtuous deemed by all, — 
That in herself was so complete 
I think that she was ta'en 

By God to deck his paradise, 
And with his saints to reign; 

Whom while on earth each one did prize 

The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

But naught our tears avail, or cries; 

All soon or late in death shall sleep; 

Nor living wight long time may keep 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

Andrew Lang offers this translation of a 

SPRING SONG 

The year has changed his mantle cold 
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air; 

And he goes clad in cloth of gold, 
Of laughing suns and season fair; 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 79 

No bird or beast of wood or wold 
But doth with cry or song declare 

The year lays down his mantle cold. 

All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled, 

The pleasant summer livery wear, 

With silver studs on broidered vair; 
The world puts off its raiment old, 
The year lays down his mantle cold. 

Of a Norman poet entirely different in tone from the serious 
Chartier or the chivalrous Charles of Orleans our own Long- 
fellow sang 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still is seen an ancient mill 
With its gables quaint and queer, 
And beneath the window-sill 
On the stone 
These words alone : 
" Oliver Basselin lived here." 

Basselin (who died in 141 9) was the author of drinking 
songs called Vaux de Vire from which comes the word vaude- 
ville, of quite different modern meaning. 

Longfellow's comment seems to be the common opinion of 
this rude, jovial singer of the coarse joys of the people, who, 
nevertheless, had a human tenderness that made him be- 
loved. 

True, his songs were not divine; 
Were not songs 

Were not songs of that high art 
Which, as winds do in the pine 
Find an answer in each heart; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 

If Basselin's verses tell the truth he had a phenomenal 



80 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

capacity, and if one may draw a conclusion from the subjects 
of his poems, he had but one idea in his head. 

*VAU DE VIRE 

Adam (notorious this, I think) 

Had not been in such sorry state 

When so fatally he ate, 
He rather taken had to drink 

Which is the cause why I avoid 

To be a gourmand in my food; 
'Tis true that I know what is good 
In wine, when wine is unalloyed. 

So that whenever I may sit 

In some repast — expecting work, 

I far more curiously look 
At the buffet than at the spit. 

The eye marks what the heart holds dear; 

Too much I may have looked upon 

A full glass : if not emptied soon 
It will not be a glass of Vire. 

Incomparable as a ballad writer, and sharing with Charles 
of Orleans the title of " first of the moderns" is Villon 
(1431-1480), the "sad, bad, glad, mad brother" of Swin- 
burne's poem. Of a temperament that lent itself to every 
excess and that led him, if not to the actual commission of 
crime, at any rate to be laid under such strong suspicion that 
he was at one time sentenced to be hanged, he had also the 
creative side of such emotional impulsiveness. His verses 
are rhythmic, musical, and accurate, his confessions are 
touching, his simplicity winning, and his humor truly mirth- 
ful. A strain of sadness betrays his consciousness of weak- 
ness, yet its presence does not mar the spontaneity that 
marks alike the grisly " Ballade of the Hanged," the "Ballade 

* Translated by Elizabeth Lee in "The Humour of France." Courtesy of Chas. 
Scribner's Sons, American publishers. 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 81 

of Old Time Ladies," quoted in another chapter, or the 
touching 

BALLADE THAT VILLON MADE AT THE REQUEST OF 
HIS MOTHER AS A PRAYER TO OUR LADY 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

Queen of the skies, and regent of the earth; 

Empress of all that dwells beneath; 
Receive me, poor and low, of little worth, 

Among thy chosen after death. 
Nothing I bring with me; nothing I have: 
But yet thy mercy, Lady, is as great 
As all my sum of sins: beyond the grave, 
Without thy mercy, none can ask of fate 
To enter heaven; and without guile or lie 
I in thy faith will faithful live and die. 

Only a woman, humble, poor, and old; 

Letters I read not; nothing know; 
But see in church with painted flames of gold 

That Hell where all the wicked go : 
And, joyous with glad harps, God's Paradise. 
One fills my heart with fear; one with delight 
For sinners all may turn repentant eyes 
To thee, Lady, merciful and bright, 
With faith down-laden — without guile or lie 
I in thy faith will faithful live and die. 

Though born a quarter of a century after the Hundred 
Years' War had ended, Pierre Gringore or Gringoire 
(147 5-1 545) evidently saw enough of war's ill effects still 
remaining about him to make him an ardent apostle of peace. 
He wrote vehemently on all subjects moral and didactic and 
so searchingly and so acutely that he has been called the 
Voltaire of his day — but on no subject is he more ardent or 
more wise than in his discussion of " Peace and War." The 
end of this really uplifting poem, unusual indeed in that pug- 
nacious period, serves also as his signature. 



82 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

* G lory to Jesus all mankind should give. 
R emember well His noble deeds and high; 
I nto this world He entered, here to live 
N ot struggling as men do. He did decry 
G reat war, and wrought for man's release. 
noble Duke and Prince of all Lorraine, 
R eigning in peace, seeing in war a stain, 
E steemed is he who keeps his land in peace. 

More important in his day than any of the other men of 
letters in this century was Philippe de Commynes (1445- 
1509), a seigneur of Flemish birth, who was first attached 
to the Burgundian court and then went over to Louis XI. 
Under Louis's son, Charles VIII, he felt the pain of royal 
fickleness for he was imprisoned for eight months in a cage. 
After this incident he was returned to favor, however, and 
was devoted to the king's service. 

In his public life Commynes was a diplomat. His private 
work was the writing of such history as France had not known 
before — history that examined causes, that sought out 
meanings, that made explanations. With him history had a 
philosophy and a psychology and it wore a profoundly moral 
aspect. Comparison of this brief quotation below with Ville- 
hardouin or De Joinville or Froissart will show that the writing 
of history in France took on a new aspect with the advent of 
Philippe de Commynes. 

THE LIMITS OF A PRINCE'S POWER 

Is there a king or lord on earth who has the power, outside his own 
domain, to lay a penny's tax upon his subjects, without granting some 
concession and gaining the consent of those who must pay it, except he 
do so by tyranny or violence? It might be urged that there are times 
when he should not wait for the assembly because it would delay matters 
too long. There is no need of haste, in beginning or carrying on war and 
there is enough time for that; and I tell you that kings and princes are 
all the stronger when they undertake it with the consent of their subjects, 

* Translated by J. Ravenel Smith. 



WHEN THE PRINTING PRESS CAME 83 

and they are more feared by their enemies. And when it comes to de- 
fending themselves and a cloud rises in the distance, especially from a 
foreign country, good subjects should not begrudge or refuse anything, 
and no emergency should be so sudden that it would not be possible to 
summon some supporters. I know well that it costs money to defend 
frontiers and to guard the country round about out of wartime, to pre- 
vent surprise, but the whole thing must be done in moderation, and the 
good sense of a wise prince guides him in all such matters; for if he is 
good he knows God and what the world demands, and what he must do and 
what he may leave undone. 



8 4 



THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 




Growth of France 
From the Close of the ioth to the Close of the 15th Century 

The shaded portion shows the part of France directly ruled by Hugh Capet. The 
dates mark the time when the provinces or dukedoms became possessions of the crown. 



CHAPTER V 
THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 

Never in the history of the world have people encountered 
so much that was new and surprising to spur the imagination 
as did the folk of western Europe in the sixteenth century. 
We who have lived in the nineteenth century are accustomed 
to think, and with truth, that we have seen marvels in the 
epoch-making developments of machinery and in the man- 
ifold applications of steam and of electricity; but the fields 
which they have opened are insignificant when compared to 
those whose wonders were revealed by the invention of print- 
ing, and the discoveries of the monotonous poles are unstimu- 
lating beside the discovery of the New World, whose varied 
wealth had existed before that time only in mythological 
speculation. 

The influx of knowledge and of letters and of scholarly men 
that had been moving from the East to the West ever since 
the days of the first crusade had swollen tremendously with 
the downfall of Constantinople, and the sixteenth century 
found the schools and universities of the West alive with 
teachers and speakers who brought with them a store of 
classical learning, some of which the West had forgotten but 
most of which it never had known. 

Beside the classical richness and buoyancy of spirit the 
brutality and the meagerness of the social life and the ascet- 
icism of the church life of the Middle Ages seemed bare and 
unlovely. Instant response was made to this new mental 
appeal. Art no longer took its subjects from tales of the 
sufferings which had won canonization for physically ugly 

85 



86 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

martyrs, but painted the ripe loveliness of worldly beings 
enjoying themselves in truly pagan abandon. Architecture 
renewed the classic outlines and redeemed the over-elaborate 
decoration of the flamboyant style by a return to the simple 
and dignified directness of the forms of early Greece and 
Rome. Disputants ceased arguing over the number of angels 
who could dance upon the point of a needle, chroniclers found 
fruitful models in the historians of ancient days, translators 
reaped an ample harvest from the new-found manuscripts of 
drama and romance, and satirists were led to a keener ob- 
servation of their own time. 

In France the political situation was one to provoke atten- 
tion in an observer of government. Under Francis the First, 
who came to the throne in 1515, the royal power reached the 
highest point of concentration which it had yet attained. 
The nobles were no longer independent, and while they, with 
the clergy and the third estate were represented in the States 
General, as a matter of fact that assembly was called to- 
gether so infrequently that it had almost no opportunity even 
to try to ch*eck the will of the sovereign. 

The change from feudal life, where every baron lived by 
himself with his own retinue about him, to a condition where 
such armed independence was neither necessary nor allowed, 
produced an alteration in social life. Francis established a 
court, gathering about him the nobility with their wives and 
daughters, and all the men of literary and artistic ability 
throughout the kingdom. 

The king himself was not only alert in the wars which he 
pushed into Italy and in his struggle against the pretensions 
of the emperor, Charles V — he was also alive to the quicken- 
ing of the Renaissance in all its aspects. Writers, architects, 
and artists knew that his regard might be counted upon for 
the material support of their activities. What he had seen 
in Italy gave him a spur toward the attainment of new 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 87 

knowledge and new beauties for the benefit of his kingdom. 
The discovery of America opened new opportunities for com- 
merce of which he took advantage by encouraging the build- 
ing of ships and their equipment by traders and explorers. 

The Renaissance was the rebirth of the classic; the Human- 
ist movement was the shift of admiration from the ascetic to 
a more human attitude toward life and art. In addition to 
these stimulating and enriching influences there came into 
the sixteenth century a force making for independence of 
thought. This was the Reformation. The seed of the Ref- 
ormation was sown when the invention of printing permitted 
the Bible to be distributed among the people, who read it 
more attentively, and, through their new knowledge of the 
classics, more intelligently than had been possible before. 
With greater knowledge came questionings as to the inter- 
pretations which had been placed upon the Book by the 
church. Beside the revolt against current theological teach- 
ings there was grave disapproval of the manner of life of the 
clergy, and within the church itself there was protest against 
misuse of money and of power. Martin Luther, a German 
monk, led the attack. The movement became popular 
throughout the West, sowing seeds of bitterness and strife 
which caused France many decades of civil war. 

Like Luther in Germany, John Calvin was the leader of 
reformed thought in France. Practically exiled, he sent forth 
his writings from Geneva. His " Institutes of the Christian 
Religion " was an explanation of Protestantism addressed to 
his king, Francis I. 

Indirect agents of the development of the Reformation 
were two men, Rabelais and Montaigne, w T hose names are 
not associated with what would be called religious writing, 
though they must be classed as moral teachers. Rabelais 
was the Dean Swift of France, a satirical, far-seeing, coarse 
and caustic commentator upon the life of his day. In his 



88 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

tales of the family of giants, Gargantua and Pantagruel and 
their kin, he painted in allegory the changing attitude of 
society. Incidentally his burlesque of the old " romance" 
changed that form of literature into a more modern aspect, 
and at the same time his use of phrases from classic literature 
made merry over the craze of the moment. He had been a 
monk before he became a physician, and while he wrote his 
stories to entertain his patients, he seized the opportunity 
to rail vehemently at the life and the practices of the monks. 

In quite another literary field Montaigne subtly under- 
mined the old philosophical teachings by his essays, whose 
themes always revolved about the question, "What do I 
know?" Brilliant, suave, intelligent, learned, clever, he did 
more than any other writer, even Calvin, to arouse inde- 
pendence of thought in the great body of the people. 

The latter half of the sixteenth century was given over to 
the most horrible of dissensions, that which is not only a 
quarrel between brothers, but is also a quarrel on the most 
hate-inspiring of subjects, religion. 

Francis I had been succeeded by his son, Henry II. His 
wife was Catherine de Medici, whose Italian sympathies 
were, of course, with the Catholics. Her son, Francis II, 
husband of Mary Queen of Scots, died after only a year's 
reign, and Catherine was regent during the minority of her 
next son, Charles IX. She chose for her adviser Michel de 
l'Hopital, a Catholic of broad mind, but even his strength was 
unable to prevent the friction between the old party and the 
new. A civil war broke out, the most awful event of which 
was the massacre of the Protestants — the Huguenots — on 
Saint Bartholomew's Day, whose slaughter rilled Charles's 
dying moments with the agony of remorse. Henry III, who 
followed his brother Charles, was quite incompetent to 
manage either his own party, the Catholics, who were still 
controlled by the once Italian family of the Guises, or the 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 89 

Protestants, who were led by the House of Navarre. Henry 
was assassinated, and by a strange turn of fortune, a Protes- 
tant monarch came to the throne in the person of Henry of 
Navarre, who ruled as Henry IV. He won the battle of Ivry, 
so vigorously sung by Macaulay, but in order to gain Paris 
he became a Catholic, declaring that "so fair a city was well 
worth a mass." His sympathy with the Protestants induced 
him, however, to issue the Edict of Nantes, which gave the 
Huguenots their long-sought rights. 

Henry's diplomatic attitude toward both parties won him 
the united love of his people, and the country was regaining 
its prosperity under his encouragement of commerce, agri- 
culture, and industry, when (in 16 10) he met his death by the 
poignard of an assassin. 

The literature of this vivid period must be looked at as the 
product of the three influences w T hich have been detailed — the 
Renaissance, the Humanist movement, and the Reformation. 
With the exception of a few out-standing names such as 
Rabelais, Calvin, and Montaigne, among prose writers, and 
Marot and Ronsard among poets, the roster for the hundred 
years is not important. Men were too busy to write during 
those decades of learning and thinking and fighting, but the 
century must, nevertheless, be considered as one in which 
the seeds w r ere sown for the remarkable fruitage in every 
literary form during the seventeenth century, the "Great 
Century" of French literature. For this reason the sixteenth 
may be looked upon as a century of beginnings. Certain it 
is that the French language in its present form and French 
literature in its modern aspects, began under Francis I. 

Commynes was mentioned in the previous chapter because 
he lived in the fifteenth century. His work, however, was not 
published until after his death, so that its influence properly 
belongs in the sixteenth century. Undoubtedly it received 
at that later day a more cordial welcome than it w r ould have 



90 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

won for its author in his lifetime, for he was, without ques- 
tion, in advance of his period. 

Rabelais (1495-1553) was a product of all three of the 
influences of the century. His humor will be noted in the 
following extracts, and it may readily be seen that it would 
win for him, as for our own "Mr. Dooley," an eager audience 
who would drink in the philosophy with the fun. 

THE WISDOM OF FOOLS 

(From " Half Hours with the Best French Authors ") 

I have often heard it said as a common proverb, that a wise man may 
be taught by a fool. If you are not perfectly satisfied with the replies 
of the wise man, take counsel of a fool; it may be that, by so doing, you 
will get an answer more to your mind. 

At Paris, in the house of the Petit-Chastelet, before the cook-shop of 
one of the roast-meat sellers, a certain hungry porter was eating his 
bread in the steam of the roast meat, and found it, so seasoned, extremely 
savoury. The cook took no notice. At last, when all the bread was 
devoured, the cook seized him by the collar, and wanted him to pay 
for the smell of the meat. The porter said that he had sustained no 
loss at all, that he had taken nothing of his, and that he owed him noth- 
ing. As for the smell in question, it had been steaming out into the 
street, and in this way was wasted; such a thing as selling the smell of 
roast meat in the street had never been heard of in Paris. The cook re- 
plied that the smell of his meat was not meant to feed porters, and swore 
that if he did not pay he would take away his truck. The porter seized 
his cudgel and prepared to defend himself. 

The altercation became serious. The idle people of Paris ran together 
from all parts to witness the dispute. Thither, a propos, came Seigni 
Joan, the fool, a citizen of Paris. Seeing him, the cook said to the porter, 
"Shall we refer our difference to the noble Seigni Joan?" "Agreed," 
replied the porter. Then Seigni Joan, having heard the cause of their 
quarrel, commanded the porter to take a piece of money from his belt. 
The porter put a Philippus in his hand. Seigni Joan took it and put 
it on his left shoulder, as if to try its weight; then made it ring on the 
palm of his left hand, as if to hear if it was good; then placed it close 
to his right eye, as if to see if it was properly stamped. While all this 
was done the idle people waited in profound silence, the master in steady 
expectation and the porter in despair. At last he made it ring on the 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 91 

counter several times. Then with presidential majesty, holding his 
bauble in his hand as if it were a sceptre, and muffling his head in a 
hood of martin skins, each side of which resembled an ape's face, with 
ears of paper plaited in points, first coughing two or three times, he 
said in a loud voice, "The court decrees that the porter who has eaten 
his bread in the fumes of the roast meat, has paid the cook according to 
law, with the sound of his money. The said court ordains that each 
retire to his own house without costs." And this sentence of the Parisian 
fool appeared so equitable, in fact so admirable to the above-named 
doctors, that they doubted, if the matter had been brought before the 
Parliament of the said place, even before the Areopagites, to be decided, 
if it would have been settled more legally. So, consider if you will take 
counsel from a fool. 

*THE STORM 

The next day we passed on the right hand side of a huge boat laden 
with Monks, Jacobins, Jesuits, Capuchins, Hermits, Augustins, Ber- 
nardines, Celestines, Theatins, Egnatins, Amadeans, Cordeliers, Car- 
melites, Minims, and other holy men of religion who were on their way 
to the council of Chesil to discuss the articles of faith against the new 
heretics. Seeking them, Panurge waxed exceeding joyful, as if assured 
of all good fortune during that day and other subsequent days for a long 
time. And having courteously saluted the blessed fathers and commended 
the salvation of his soul to their devout prayers and especial appeals, 
he had seventy-eight dozen hams, a number of jars of caviar, some tons 
of sausages, hundreds of salted mullet's eggs and two thousand fine 
cheeses thrown into their boat for the souls of the dead. Pantagruel 
remained thoughtful and melancholy. Brother John noticed it and was 
inquiring whence came such unusual sadness, when the pilot, observing 
the fluttering of the pennant on the stern and foreseeing a mighty storm 
and a fresh tempest, ordered everybody to be on the alert, sailors, stewards, 
cabin boys, and the rest of us travellers, too; he shortened the sails, had 
the bowlines made taut, the foremast and the topmast strengthened, 
the great mizzenmast lowered, and almost all the yards stowed. Sud- 
denly the sea began to swell and to rage from its deepest abysses; huge 
waves beat against our vessel's sides; the northwest wind was accom- 
panied by an unbridled hurricane, dark water spouts, and terrible whirl- 
winds, and deadly squalls whistled through our yards; the heavens on 
high thundered and rumbled, lightened, rained, hailed; the atmosphere 
lost its clearness, and became opaque, cloudy and dark, so that no other 
*From " Pantagruel. " 



Q2' THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

light appeared to us than that of thunder bursts, lightning flashes and 
the tearing of flaming clouds. . . . You can imagine that this seemed 
to us like chaos of old, beneath which were fire, air, sea, land, all the 
elements in turbulent confusion. 

Panurge, having handsomely feasted the scavenger fish with the con- 
tents of his stomach, lay on the deck in a state of deep affliction, thor- 
oughly used up and half dead; he called to his aid all the blessed saints, 
male and female, vowed to confess at an early opportunity, then cried 
out in great fear, saying, "Steward, here, friend, father, uncle, bring me 
a bit of salt pork; it looks to me as if presently we should have only too 
much to drink. Soon I shall eat little and drink much. Would to God 
and the blessed, worthy and holy Virgin that now, at once, I might be 
at my ease on terra firtna! thrice happy and even fourfold are they 
who plant cabbages! Fates, why did you not spin my thread as a 
planter of cabbages! Oh how small is the number of those to whom 
Jupiter has granted this favor, that he has destined them to plant cab- 
bages ! For they always have one foot on land and the other not far from 
it. Quarrel over happiness and the sovereign good as you will, but he 
who plants cabbages is hereby, by my decree, pronounced superlatively 
happy, with much better reason than Pyrrhus, who, being in like danger 
to ours and seeing near the river bank a pig eating garbage that had 
been thrown out there, declared him to be very happy for two reasons, 
first, because he had garbage in abundance, and then, especially because 
he was on land. Ha! for a godlike and lordly manor there is nothing like 
a cow shed ! This wave will sweep us away, O God our Savior ! friends ! 
Vinegar, I beg! I am sweating and fainting. Alas, the sails are torn, 
the galley is smashed, the yard rings are cracking, the topmast is dipping 
in the sea; the keel is turned to the sun, our ropes are almost all broken. 
Alas, alas, where are our bowlines? All is lost, by Heaven! Our mast 
is by the board. Alas, whose will be this wreck? Friends, stretch me 
out here behind the taffrail. Children, your lantern has fallen. Alas, 
do not abandon the discharge pipe from the pumps nor the handle thereof. 
I hear the pump's barrel shuddering. Is it broken? For Heaven's sake, 
let's save the stays and not worry about the bolts. * Bebebe, bous, bous, 
bons. Look at the needle of your compass, for pity's sake, master Star- 
lover, and see whence this tempest has come upon us. Upon my word, 
I am thoroughly frightened. Bou, bou, bou, bous, bous. It's all over with 
me. Bou, bou, bou, bou. Otto to to to to ti. Bou, bou, bou, ou, ou, ou t bou, 
bou, bous, bous. I am drowning. I am drowning. I am dying, good folk, 
I am dying. 

* Burlesque on animal sounds in Aristophanes' "Frogs." 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 93 

Independence of thought marked Calvin (1 509-1 563) 
both as man and theologian. With comparatively little 
moderation his doctrine has held to the present day; his style 
is clear and decisive. These qualities, together with his logic, 
are evident in the appeal which he made to King Francis for 
a righteous judgment on the truths which he asserted and 
on the people who believed them. 

Seeing that the fury of certain wicked men wa^ so aroused in your 
Kingdom that it had left no opportunity for any sound doctrine, it 
seemed to me expedient to make this book serve as much for the instruc- 
tion of those who in the first place I was eager to teach, as also for a 
confession of faith to you: that you might know what the doctrine is 
against which those who are disturbing your Kingdom today by fire 
and sword are so furiously inflamed with such rage. For I shall have no 
shame in confessing that I have here comprised a summary, as it were, 
of that same doctrine which they think ought to be punished by prison, 
banishment, proscription and fire; and which they declare ought to be 
driven away from land and sea. Well do I know with what horrible 
tales they have filled your ears and your heart to make our cause hateful 
to you; but you must consider according to your clemency and gentle- 
ness that there would be no innocence in words or deeds if accusations 
were all. Certainly if some one, to rouse hatred against this doctrine 
in whose behalf I am obliged to address you, presents the argument that 
it is already condemned by the common consent of all classes, that it 
has had several decrees declared against it, he will say nothing more 
weighty than that it has been, on the one hand, violently opposed by 
the power and the conspiracy of its opponents, on the other maliciously 
oppressed by their lies, deceits, calumnies and treachery. By force and 
violence, cruel judgments have been pronounced against it before it 
has been defended. By deceit and treachery it has been accused cause- 
lessly of sedition and evil-doing. That no one may think that we are 
complaining of these things without reason, you yourself can bear wit- 
ness, Sire, by the number of false slanders it has daily brought to your 
ears; it is clear that it has no other purpose than to ruin all government 
and system, to disturb peace, to abolish law, to disperse seigneuries and 
possessions, in short, to throw everything into confusion. And neverthe- 
less you hear but the smallest part of it all. For they spread horrible 
reports about it among the people which, if true, would rightly compel 
every one to believe it and its authors worthy of a thousand fires and a 



94 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

thousand gibbets. Who will wonder now why it is so hated by every- 
body since they give credence to wicked detractions? That is the reason 
why all classes with one accord are in a conspiracy to condemn both us 
and our doctrine. Those who are appointed to judge it, because they 
are charmed and delighted with such an idea, give as their decision the 
opinion that they brought with them from home and they think that 
they have acquitted themselves handsomely of their duty if they do not 
condemn any one to death, especially those who either on their own ad- 
mission or on the testimony of others, are converted [to the doctrine], 
"But for what crime «are they condemned?" "For this damnable doc- 
trine/ ' is the reply. "For what reason is it ' damnable' ?" Now this 
was the contention of the defense — that the doctrine was not disavowed 
but was supported as true. Here freedom of speech is forbidden. For 
such causes, I do not ask unreasonably, Sire, that you will deign to in- 
form yourself thoroughly concerning this belief, which, until now, has 
been in a state of confusion, unordered, and marked by impetuous ardor 
rather than by judicial moderation and gravity. 

Montaigne (i 533-1 592) was a man of position who 
served his city as mayor, his king at court, himself in his 
study, and the thinking world from his day to ours through 
the intelligence and good sense of his philosophy. His educa- 
tion was unusual and he reaped its fruits in a broad love of 
knowledge and in an ability to draw from his reading a wealth 
of illustrations for the enlightenment of his serious Essays. 
Serious they are, yet their high moral tone is penetrated by a 
style so easy, so flowing, and so logical, and his subjects are 
chosen and treated with such variety that their teaching is 
the essence of tact and their sermonizing a thing to be desired. 
He was beloved in his own time — so beloved that during the 
civil wars both Catholics and Protestants left him untouched. 
His influence over writers of later generations has had a 
distinct effect upon French letters, and he is read today not as 
a curiosity of literature or philosophy but for the living merit 
of his thought. 

The essay form allows its author to free his mind on every 
subject on which he cares to comment, and Montaigne made 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 95 

ample use of his privilege. Here are a few pages from his 
outline of a desirable education, advocating a method much 
more in accordance with the notions of the twentieth century 
than was the system in vogue in the sixteenth. His account 
of the conduct of a school ruled by the rod reads like the 
activities of Mr. Squeers and his ilk but a generation ago. 
Today we are recognizing the expediency, if nothing else, of 
the feather instead of the " willow switch" whose use Mon- 
taigne deplores. 

EXTRACT FROM THE ESSAY ENTITLED "OF THE INSTITU- 
TION AND EDUCATION OF CHILDREN; TO THE LADIE 
DIANA OF FOIX, COUNTESS OF GURSON." 

(Translated by John Florio in 1603) 

Madame, Learning joyned with true knowledge is an especiall and 
gracefull ornament, and an implement of wonderfull use and consequence, 
namely in persons raised to that degree of fortune, wherein you are. And 
in good truth, learning hath not her owne true forme, nor can she make 
shew of her beauteous lineaments, if she fall into the hands of base and 
vile persons. She is much more readie and fierce to lend her furtherance 
and direction in the conduct of a warre, to attempt honorable actions, to 
command a people, to treat a peace with a prince of forraine nation, than 
she is to forme an argument in Logick, to devise a Syllogisme, to canvase 
a case at the barre, or to prescribe a receit of pills. So (noble Ladie) 
forsomuch as I cannot perswade my selfe, that you will either forget or 
neglect this point, concerning the institution of yours, especially having 
tasted the sweetnesse thereof, and being descended of so noble and 
learned a race. For we yet possesse the learned compositions of the 
ancient and noble Earles of Foix, from out whose heroicke lpynes your 
husband and you take your of -spring. And Francis Lord of Candale 
your worthie uncle, doth daily bring forth such fruits thereof, as the 
knowledge of the matchlesse qualitie of your house shall hereafter ex- 
tend it selfe to many ages; I will therefore make you acquainted with one 
conceit of mine, which contrarie to the common use I hold, and that is 
all I am able to affoord you, concerning that matter. The charge of the 
Tutor, which you shall appoint your sonne, in the choice of whom con- 
sisteth the whole substance of his education and bringing-up; on which 
are many branches depending, which (forasmuch as I can adde nothing 
of any moment to it) I will not touch at all. And for that point, wherein 
I presume to advise him, he may so far forth give credit unto it, as he 
shall see just cause. To a gentleman borne of noble parentage, and heire 
of a house, that aymeth at true learning, and in it would be disciplined, 
not so much for game or commoditie to himselfe (because so abject an 
end is far unworthie the grace and favour of the Muses, and besides, 



96 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

hath a regard or dependencie of others) nor for externall shew and orna- 
ment, but to adorne and enrich his inward minde, desiring rather to 
shape and institute an able and sufficient man, than a bare learned man. 
My desire is therefore, that the parents or overseers of such a gentleman 
be very circumspect, and carefull in chusing his director, whom I would 
rather commend for having a well composed and temperate braine, 
than a full stuft head, yet both will doe well. And I would rather prefer 
wisdome, judgement, civill customes, and modest behaviour, than bare 
and meere literall learning; and that in his charge he hold a new course. 
Some never cease brawling in their schollers eares (as if they were still 
pouring in a tonell) to follow their booke, yet is their charge nothing else, 
but to repeat, what hath beene told them before. I would have a tutor 
to correct this part, and that at first entrance, according to the capacitie 
of the wit he hath in hand, he should begin to make shew of it, making 
him to have a smacke of all things, and how to chuse and distinguish 
them, without helpe of others, sometimes opening him the way, other 
times leaving him to open it by himself e. I would not have him to invent 
and speake alone, but suffer his disciple to speake when his turne com- 
meth. Socrates , and after him Arcesilaus, made their schollers to speak 
first, and then would speake themselves. Most commonly the authoritie of 
them that teach hinders them that would leame. Cicero, De Natura Rerum. 

It is therefore meet, that he make him first trot-on before him, whereby 
he may the better judge of his pace, and so guesse how long he will hold 
out, that accordingly he may fit his strength: for want of which propor- 
tion, we often marre all. And to know how to make a good choice, and 
how far forth one may proceed (still keeping a due measure) is one of 
the hardest labours I know. It is a signe of a noble, and effect of an 
undanted spirit, to know how to second, and how far forth he shall con- 
descend to his childish proceedings, and how to guide them. As for my 
selfe, I can better and with more strength walke up, than downe a hill. 
Those which according to our common fashion, undertake with one 
selfe-same lesson, and like maner of education, to direct many spirits of 
divers formes and different humours, it is no marvell if among a multitude 
of children, they scarce meet with two or three, that reap any good fruit 
by their discipline, or that come to any perfection. I would not only 
have him to demand an accompt of the words contained in his lesson, 
but of the sense and substance thereof, and judge of the profit he hath 
made of it, not by the testimonie of his memorie, but by the witnesse 
of his life. That what he lately learned, he cause him to set forth and 
pour tray the same into sundrie shapes, and then to accommodate it to 
as many different and severall subjects; whereby he shal perceive, whether 
he have yet apprehended the same, and therein enfeoffed himselfe, at 
due times taking his instruction from the institution given by Plato. 
It is a signe of cruditie and indigestion for a man to yeeld up his meat, 
even as he swallowed the same: the stomacke hath not wrought his 
full operation, unlesse it have changed forme, and altered fashion of that 
which was given him to boyle and concoct. 

Our minde doth move at others pleasure, as tyed and forced to serve 
the fantasies of others, being brought under by authoritie, and forced 
to stoope to the lure of their bare lesson; wee have beene so subjected to 
harpe upon one string, that we have no way left us to descant upon volun- 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 97 

tarie: our vigor and libertie is cleane extinct. They never come to their 
owne tuition. It was my hap to bee familiarlie acquainted with an honest 
man at Pisa, but such an Aristotelian, as he held this infallible position; 
that a conformitie to Aristotles doctrine was the true touchstone and 
squire of all solide imaginations, and perfect veritie; for, whatsoever 
had no coherencie with it, was but fond Chimeraes, and idle humours; 
in asmuch as he had knowne all, seene all, and said all. This proposition 
of his, being somewhat over amply and injuriously interpreted by some, 
made him a long time after to be troubled in the inquisition of Rome. 
I would have him make his scholler narrowly to sift all things with dis- 
cretion, and harbour nothing in his head by meere authoritie, or upon 
trust. Aristotles principles shall be no more axiomes unto him, than the 
Stoikes or Epicurians. Let this diversitie of judgments be proposed 
unto him, if he can, he shall be able to distinguish the truth from false- 
hood, if not, he will remaine doubtfull. 

No lesse it pleaseth me, 
To doubt, than wise to be. 

Dante, Inferno, canto xii. 48. 

For if by his owne discourse he embrace the opinions of Xenophon, or 
of Plato, they shall be no longer theirs, but his. He that meerely fol- 
loweth another, traceth nothing, and seeketh nothing: We are not under 
a Kings command, every one may challenge himself e, for let him at least 
know that he knoweth. Seneca, Epistles xxxiii. It is requisite he en- 
devour as much to feed himselfe with their conceits, as labour to learne 
their precepts; which, so he know how to applie, let him hardly forget, 
where, or whence he had them. Truth and reason are common to all, 
and are no more proper unto him that spake them heretofore, than unto 
him that shall speake them hereafter. And it is no more according to 
Platoes opinion, than to mine, since both he and I understand and see 
alike. The Bees doe here and there sucke this, and cull that flower, 
but afterward they produce the hony, which is peculiarly their owne, 
then is it no more Thyme or JMajoram. So of peeces borrowed of others, 
he may lawfully alter, transforme, and confound them, to shape out of 
them a perfect peece of worke, altogether his owne; alwaies provided, 
his judgement, his travell, studie, and institution tend to nothing, but 
to frame the same perfect. Let him hardly conceale, where, or whence 
he hath had any helpe, and make no shew of any thing, but of that which 
he hath made himselfe. Pirates, filchers, and borrowers, make a shew of 
their purchaces and buildings, but not of that which they have taken 
from others: you see not the secret fees or bribes Lawyers take of their 
Clients, but you shall manifestly discover the alliances they make, the 
honours they get for their children, and the goodly houses they build. 
No man makes open shew of his receits, but every one of his gettings. 
The good that comes of studie (or at least should come) is to prove better, 
wiser, and honester. It is the understanding power (said Epicharmus) 
that seeth and heareth, it is it, that profiteth all, and disposeth all, that 
moveth, swayeth, and ruleth all: all things else are but blind, senselesse, 
and without spirit. And truly in barring him of libertie to doe any thing 
of himselfe, we make him thereby more servile and more coward. Who 
would ever enquire of his scholler what he thinketh of Rhetorike, of 



98 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Grammar, of this, or of that sentence of Cicero ? Which things throughly 
fethered (as if they were oracles) are let flie into our memorie; in which 
both letters and syllables are substantiall parts of the subject. To know 
by roat is no perfect knowledge, but to keep what one hath committed 
to his memories charge, is commendable : what a man directly knoweth, 
that will he dispose of, without turning still to his booke, or looking to 
his pattern. A meere bookish sufficiencie is unpleasant. All I expect of 
it, is an imbellishing of my actions, and not a foundation of them, accord- 
ing to Platoes mind, who saith, constancie, faith, and sinceritie, are true 
Philosophic; as for other Sciences, and tending else-where, they are but 
garish paintings. X would faine have Paluel or Pompey, those two ex- 
cellent dauncers of our time, with all their nimblenesse, teach any man 
to doe their loftie tricks, and high capers, only with seeing them done, 
and without stirring out of his place, as some Pedanticall fellowes would 
instruct our minds without moving or putting it in practice. And glad 
would I be to find one, that would teach us how to manage a horse, to 
tosse a pike, to shoot-off a peece, to play upon the lute, or to warble 
with the voice, without any exercise, as these kind of men would teach 
us to judge, and how to speak well, without any exercise of speaking 
or judging. In which kind of life, or as I may terme it, Prentiship, what 
action or object soever presents it-selfe unto our eies, may serve us in 
stead of a sufficient booke. A prettie pranke of a boy, a knavish tricke 
of a page, a foolish part of a lackey, an idle tale or any discourse else, 
spoken either in jest or earnest, at the table or in companie, are even as 
new subjects for us to worke-upon: for furtherance whereof, commerce 
or common societie among men, visiting of forraine countries, and ob- 
serving of strange fashions, are verie necessary, not only to be able 
(after the manner of our yong gallants of France) to report how many 
paces the Church of Santa Rotonda is in length or breadth, or as some do, 
nicely to dispute how much longer or broader the face of Nero is, which 
they have seene in some old mines of Italie, than that which is made for 
him in other old monuments elsewhere. But they should principally 
observe, and be able to make certaine relation of the humours and fash- 
ions of those countries they have seene, that they may the better know 
how to correct and prepare their wits by those of others. I would there- 
fore have him begin even from his infancie to travell abroad; and first, 
that at one shoot he may hit two markes, he should see neighbour- 
countries, namely where languages are most different from ours; for, 
unlesse a mans tongue be fashioned unto them in his youth, he shall 
never attaine to the true pronuntiation of them, if he once grow in yeares. 
Moreover, we see it received as a common opinion of the wiser sort, that 
it agreeth not with reason, that a childe be alwaies nuzzled, cockered, 
dandled, and brought up in his parents lap or sight; forsomuch as their 
naturall kindnesse, or (as I may call it) tender fondnesse, cause th often, 
even the wisest to prove so idle, so over-nice, and so base-minded. For 
parents are not capable, neither can they find in their hearts to see them 
checkt, corrected, or chastised, nor indure to see them brought up so 
meanly, and so far from daintinesse, and many times so dangerously, 
as they must needs be. And it would grieve them to see their children 
come home from those exercises, that a Gentleman must necessarily 
acquaint himselfe with, sometimes all wet and bemyred, other times 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 99 

sweatie, and full of dust, and to drinke being either extreme hot, or 
exceeding cold; and it would trouble them to see him ride a rough-un- 
tamed horse, or with his weapon furiously incounter a skilfull Fencer, 
or to handle and shoot-oft a musket; against which there is no remedy, 
if he will make him prove a sufficient, compleat, or honest man: he must 
not be spared in his youth; and it will come to pass, that he shall many 
times have occasion and be forced to shocke the rules of Physicke. 

Leade he his life in open aire, 
And in affaires full of despaire. 

Horace i, Odes, ii, 4 

It is not sufficient to make his minde strong, his muskles must also 
be strengthened: the minde is over-borne if it be not seconded: and it 
is too much for her alone to discharge two offices. I have a feeling how 
mine panteth, being joyned to so tender and sensible a bodie, and that 
lieth so heavie upon it. And in my lecture, I often perceive how my 
Authors in their writings sometimes commend examples for magnanim- 
itie and force, that rather, proceed from a thicke skin and hardnes of 
the bones. I have knowne men, women, and children borne of so hard 
a constitution, that a blow with a cudgell would lesse hurt them, than 
a filip would doe me, and so dull and blockish, that they will neither stir 
tongue nor eye-browes, beat them never so much. When wrestlers goe 
about to counterfeit the Philosophers patience, they rather shew the 
vigor of their sinnewes, than of their heart. For the custome to beare 
travell, is to tolerate grief e: Labour worketh a hardnesse upon sorrow. 
Cicero. Hee must be enured to suffer the paine and hardnesse of exer- 
cises, that so he may be induced to endure the paine of the colicke, of 
cauterie, of fals, of sprains, and other diseases incident to mans bodie: 
yea, if need require, patiently to beare imprisonment, and other tortures, 
by which sufferance he shall come to be had in more esteeme and ac- 
compt: for according to time and place, the good as well as the bad man 
may haply fall into them; we have seen it by experience. Whosoever 
striveth against the lawes, threats good men with mischiefe and extortion. 
Moreover, the authoritie of the Tutor (who should be soveraigne over him) 
is by the cockering and presence of the parents, hindred and interrupted: 
besides the awe and respect which the houshold beares him, and the 
knowledge of the meanes, possibilities, and greatnesse of his house, are 
in my judgement, no small lets in a young Gentleman. In this schoole 
of commerce, and societie among men, I have often noted this vice, that 
in lieu of taking acquaintance of others, we only endevour to make our 
selves knowne to them : and we are more ready to utter such merchandize 
as we havej than to ingrosse and purchase new commodities. Silence 
and modestie are qualities verie convenient to civil conversation. It 
is also necessary, that a young man be rather taught to be discreetly- 
sparing, and close-handed, than prodigally-wastfull and lavish in his 
expences, and moderate in husbanding his wealth when he shall come 
to possesse it. And not to take pepper in the nose for every foolish tale 
that shal be spoken in his presence, because it is an uncivil importunity, 
to contradict, whatsoever is not agreeing to our humour: let him be pleased 
to correct himself. 



ioo THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Montaigne tells us with engaging frankness what he thinks 
about old writers and modern and his criticisms are shrewd 
and well-balanced. His praise of Paris is widely quoted. 

I am not unmindful of the fact that I am never so rebellious against 
France as not to look kindly on Paris. She has had my heart since my 
childhood, and it has happened to me, as it usually does with excellent 
things, that the more I have seen other cities, the more the beauty of 
this one has won my affection; I love her for herself, more for what she 
is alone than when she is decked with elegancies from abroad. I love 
her tenderly, even her scars and stains; I am French only as I belong to 
this great city, great in population, great in the good fortune of her situa- 
tion; but especially great and incomparable in the variety and diversity 
of her commodities. She is the glory of France and one of the noblest 
ornaments of the world. May God drive strife far from us! One and 
united, I find her unassailable by other violence; I warn her that of all 
conditions, that will be the worst which will plunge her into discord, 
and I urge her to fear nothing except herself, and to fear for herself as 
much, surely, as for any other part of these states. As long as it lasts I 
shall not be without a retreat for my extremity, sufficient to make me 
lose desire for any other retreat. 

Toward the end of the century Francis de Sales (1567- 
1622), bishop of Geneva, wrote doctrinal and meditative 
treatises which mark the advent of more peaceful days in 
the religious controversy. He was a favorite with Henry of 
Navarre, who had something of the prelate's catholicity of 
spirit, and the gentleness and spirituality of his appeal have 
made him read and beloved even to the present time. His 
style is winning, his illustrations drawn from nature, his tone 
both tender and elevated. 

FROM TREATISE ON THE LOVE OF GOD 

He who has listened for some time to the pleasant morning warbling 
from the neighboring thickets of many canaries, linets, gold finches, and 
other small birds, and hears at last a nightingale fill the air with the 
perfect melody of his wonderful voice, doubtless prefers this single hedge- 
row songster to the whole feathered flock. In like manner, after hearing 
all the praises which so many different creatures vie with each other to 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS—THE SIXTEENTH 101 

offer to their Creator, when at last one hears that of the Savior, one 
finds in it a certain infinity of merit, of value, of suavity which surpasses 
all hope or expectation of the heart, and then the soul, as if awakened 
from a deep sleep, is suddenly ravished by the extreme sweetness of 
such a melody. 

"Ah r I hear it, Oh the voice, the voice of my well-beloved/ ' the voice 
which is queen of all voices, the voice beside which other voices are but 
a dumb and mournful silence. 

" Father of French letters" was the title given to Francis I 
(who reigned from 1515-1547) in recognition of his encour- 
agement of literature. He summoned scholars to court and 
he established the College of France for the study of Greek. 
He watched the progress of letters with a jealous as well as 
approving eye, for he established a censorship which passed 
upon the publication of all books, and he even decreed the 
execution of two writers who disobeyed his ordinances. His 
own pen was not inapt. Here is his 

EPITAPH ON AGNES SOREL 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

Here lies entombed the fairest of the fair: 
To her rare beauty greater praise be given, 

Than holy maids in cloistered cells may share, 
Or hermits that in deserts live for heaven! 

For by her charms recovered France arose, 

Shook off her chains, and triumphed o'er her foes. 

Francis's sister, Marguerite of Valois (1492-1549) 
Queen of Navarre, gathered about her a group of writers, not 
brilliant, but graceful and earnest. Marguerite herself was a 
woman of extraordinary ability, the mistress of many lan- 
guages, the author of tender verse and dashing prose, a 
Catholic friend of Protestants, and an influential adviser of 
Francis, whom she loved with more than sisterly tenderness. 
At his death she wrote 



102 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

* 'Tis done, a father, mother, gone, 

A sister, brother, torn away, 
My hope is now in God alone, 

Whom heaven and earth alike obey. 
Above, beneath, to him is known, — 
The world's wide compass is his own. 

I love, — but in the world no more, 

Nor in gay hall or festal bower; 
Not the fair forms I prized before, — 

But Him, all beauty, wisdom, power, 
My Saviour, who has cast a chain 
On sin and ill and woe and pain! 

I from my memory have effaced 
All former joys, all kindred, friends; 

All honors that my station graced 
I hold but snares that fortune sends; 

Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, 

That we may be his own at last! 

Modelled on Boccaccio's " Decameron" is Marguerite's 
"Heptameron," the story of the seven days' diversions of a 
party of travellers. Here are two of the stories. 

FIFTY-FIFTH TALE 

The widow of a merchant carries out her husband's will, interpreting 
its meaning to the advantage of herself and her children. 

In the town of Saragossa there was a rich merchant, who, seeing that 
death was approaching and that he could no longer keep his property, 
which he had acquired, perhaps, in wicked ways, thought that by making 
some trifling gift to God, he would, after his death, make amends in 
part for his sins; as if God gave pardon for money! And when he had 
ordered the affairs of his house, he said that he wished that a fine Spanish 
horse that he had should be sold for as large a sum as possible and the 
money given to the poor, begging his wife that she should not fail, as 
soon as he was dead, to sell the horse and to distribute this money ac- 
cording to his direction. 

When the burial was over and the first tears had fallen, the wife, who 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS—THE SIXTEENTH 103 

was not any more foolish than Spanish women usually are, approached 
the servant who had heard his master's wish with her. 

"It seems to me that I have met a sufficient loss in the person of the 
husband whom I loved so dearly without losing his property now. I 
do not want to disobey his command but rather to carry out his purpose 
in a better way; for the poor man, led by the avarice of the Priests, 
thought he would make a great sacrifice to God by giving after his death 
a sum of which, as you know, he would not have given a crown during 
his lifetime, even for extreme need. Therefore, I have decided that we 
will do what he ordered at his death and even better than he would have 
done if he had lived a fortnight longer, but no one in the world must 
know anything about it." 

And, when she had the servant's promise to keep it secret, she said to 
him: "You will go forth to sell his horse, and to anyone who asks you 
'How much?' you will say: 'One ducat;' but I have an especially fine 
cat which I wish to offer for sale, too, and you will sell it at the same time 
for ninety-nine ducats, so that cat and horse together will yield the hun- 
dred ducats for which my husband expected to sell the horse alone." 

The servant promptly carried out his mistress's command and, as he 
was leading his horse through the square, holding his cat in his arms, 
a certain gentleman who had previously seen the horse and wished to 
own him, asked the man how much he wanted for him. 

"One ducat," the fellow answered. 

"Don't jest, I beg," the gentleman returned. 

"I assure you, sir," said the servant, "that he will cost you but one 
ducat. It is true that the purchaser must buy the cat, too, and I must 
have ninety-nine ducats for him." 

At once the gentleman, who considered that he had a reasonable 
bargain, paid him promptly one ducat for the horse and the remainder 
as he had requested, and led off his purchase. 

On his part, the servant carried away the money, over which his 
mistress was highly delighted, and did not fail to give the ducat for which 
the horse had been sold to the Poor Mendicants, as her husband had 
commanded, and kept the remainder for the benefit of herself and her 
children. 

FIFTY-SEVENTH TALE 

For seven years an English Lord was in love with a lady without dar- 
ing to tell her about it, until one day, when he was gazing at her in a 
meadow, he lost all color and all control of expression through a sudden 
palpitation of the heart that seized him; then she, showing her pity for 



104 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

him, at his request laid her gloved hand over his heart. He pressed it so 
ardently while telling her of the love that he had long borne her, that 
where she had laid her hand her glove remained. Later he enriched it 
with precious stones and fastened it upon his doublet on the side of his 
heart, and was so truly and worthily her servant that he never asked any 
greater privilege. 

King Louis XI sent to England as his ambassador Lord de Mont- 
morency, who was so welcome there that the King and all the Princes 
esteemed him highly and were fond of him, and even sought his advice 
concerning some of their private affairs. 

One day, being present at a banquet which the King gave for him, 
there was seated near him a nobleman of high rank who wore fastened 
upon his doublet a little glove such as women wear, with gold hooks, 
and on the finger seams there were many diamonds, rubies, emeralds 
and pearls, so that this glove was considered of great value. Lord de 
Montmorency looked at it so often that the nobleman noticed that he 
wished to ask him the reason why it was so richly furnished, and because 
he thought the account was greatly to his credit he began the relation. 

"I see that you think it strange that I have decked out a poor glove 
so gorgeously, and I am even more eager to tell you the story, for I take 
you to be an intelligent man and one who knows what sort of passion 
love is. So that if I did well you will praise me for it, or, if not, you will 
forgive me because of the love that rules all worthy hearts. 

"You must know that all my life I have loved a Lady, that I love her 
now and shall love her after death, and because my heart was bolder 
in placing its affection than were my lips in speaking, I waited seven years 
without daring to give her any hint, fearing that if she should know it I 
should lose my opportunity of being often with her, for this I dreaded more 
than death. But one day, being in a meadow gazing at her, such a severe 
palpitation of the heart attacked me that I lost color and control of ex- 
pression. She noticed it, and asked what was the matter with me, and I 
told her that I had an unbearable pain in the heart. And she, thinking 
that my illness was of another sort than love, showed me that she was 
sorry for me, which made me beg her to be willing to lay her hand upon 
my heart to see how it was beating. This she did, more from charity 
than from any other sort of love, and when I held her gloved hand against 
my heart it began to beat and be distressed so heavily that she felt that 
I spoke truth. And then I pressed her hand against my heart, saying: 

"'Alas, Lady, receive the heart that is eager to burst my breast and 
leap into the hand of her from whom I hope for favor and life and pity. 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 105 

I am forced now to disclose to you the love that I have long concealed, 
for neither my heart nor I are masters of this powerful god. ' 

"When she heard the tenor of my words she thought it strange. 

"She desired to withdraw her hand; I held it so firmly that the glove 
remained in the place of her cruel hand, and because I have never had 
any greater favor from her I have fastened this glove as the best plaster 
I can give my heart, and I have adorned it with all the richest rings that 
I had, though the riches lie in the glove itself which I would not give 
up for the Kingdom of England, for I have no greater happiness in the 
world than to feel it on my breast." 

Lord de Montmorency, who would have preferred a lady's hand to 
her glove, praised him that he was the truest lover that ever he had seen, 
and worthy of better treatment since he set so much store by so little, 
but that, taking into consideration his great love, if he had won more 
than the glove, perhaps he would have died of joy. With this suggestion 
of Lord de Montmorency the Englishman agreed, not suspecting that 
he was making fun of him. 

Among the proteges of Marguerite Mellin de Saint- 
Gelais (1487-1558) is known for verse ingenious and musical, 
and especially for the sonnet, a form which his admirers 
claimed that he had introduced into France. Austin Dobson 
has translated 

THE SONNET OF THE MOUNTAIN 

When from afar these mountain tops I view, 
I do but mete mine own distress thereby: 
High is their head, and my desire is high; 
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain too. 
E'en as the winds above their summits blue, 
From me too breaks betimes the wistful sigh; 
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie, 
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew. 

A thousand flocks upon them feed and stray; 
As many loves within me see the day, 
And all my heart for pasture ground divide. 
No fruit have they, my lot as fruitless is; 
And 'twixt us now nought diverse is but this — 
In them the snows, in me the fires abide. 



Io6 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Even the pages about Marguerite's court became touched 
with literary desire. Bona venture Desperiers (who died 
in 1544) was one of them, and he wrote not only religious 
and fanciful poems, but amusing prose as well. 

An example is 



THE STORY OF BLONDEAU THE COBBLER, WHO WAS NEVER 
MELANCHOLY BUT TWICE IN HIS LIFE AND WHAT HE 
DID FOR IT 

(From "Half Hours with the Best French Authors") 

"At Paris on the Seine three boats there be;" but there was also a 
cobbler named Blondeau, who lodged near the Croix du Tiroir; there he 
earned his living merrily by mending shoes. He loved good wine above 
all things, and willingly taught those who went there to do so too; for 
if there was any in all that quarter it was thought necessary that he 
should taste it; and he was very well content to take a little more if it 
proved good. 

All day long he sang and made the neighborhood lively. He was never 
seen vexed in his life but twice, once when he had found in an old wall 
a pot containing a great quantity of old coins, some of silver, some of 
alloy, of which he did not know the value. Then he began to grow 
thoughtful. He left off singing and could think of nothing but the tin 
pot. He said to himself, "This sort of money is not used now; I shall 
not be able to buy any bread or wine with it. If I show it to the silver- 
smiths they will betray me, or they will want to get their share, and 
will not give me half its value." Sometimes he was afraid he had not 
hidden the pot securely enough, and that somebody would rob him of 
it. He would leave his shed at all hours of the day to go and change its 
place. He was in the greatest possible trouble about it; but in the end 
he came to a better mind, saying to himself, "How now, I do nothing 
but think of this pot. Everybody knows well, by my manner, that 
there's something singular in my condition. Bah! Bad luck to the pot! 
It brings me misfortune." The end of it was that he proceeded to take 
it quietly and throw it into the river, and so drowned all his melancholy 
along with the pot. 

At another time he was much annoyed by a gentleman who lived just 
opposite his little shop — or, rather, his shop was opposite the gentleman. 
The said gentleman had a monkey who played a thousand tricks on poor 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 107 

Blondeau, for he watched him from a high window when he was cutting 
his leather and noticed how he did it; and directly Blondeau went out 
to dinner or anywhere on business down would come the monkey and 
go into Blondeau's shop and take his knife and cut up his leather as he 
had seen Blondeau do; and this he was in the habit of doing every time 
that Blondeau was out of the way: so that, for a time, the poor man 
could not leave his shop, even for his meals, without putting away his 
leather; and if sometimes he forgot to lock it up, the monkey never 
forgot to cut it to bits, a proceeding that annoyed him greatly; and yet 
he was afraid to hurt the monkey, for fear of his master. When, how- 
ever, he grew thoroughly tired of this he considered how he could pay 
him out. After having noticed particularly the way in which the monkey 
imitated exactly everything he saw done, — for if Blondeau sharpened 
his knife, the monkey sharpened it too; if he waxed his thread, so, too, 
did the monkey; if he sewed some new soles, the monkey set about mov- 
ing his elbows as he had seen him do, — Blondeau one day sharpened his 
knife and made it cut like a razor, and then, when he saw the monkey 
watching, he began to put his knife to his throat, and move it backwards 
and forwards, as if he wished to kill himself, and when he had done this 
long enough to make the monkey notice it, he left his shop and went to 
dinner. The monkey was not slow in coming down, for he wished to try 
this new pastime, which he had never seen before. He took the knife 
and put it immediately to his throat, moving it backwards and forwards. 
But he put it too near, and not being very careful as he rubbed it against 
the skin he cut his throat with this well-sharpened knife, and died of the 
wound within an hour. Thus did Blondeau punish the monkey without 
danger to himself. 

Giving himself to classical lore Jacques Amyot (1513- 
1593) who learned ancient languages while he was a servant 
in a Paris college, and who later became Bishop of Auxerre, 
made translations — of Plutarch, of Heliodorus's romance, 
"Theagenes and Chariclea" — which not only retained the 
spirit of the original, but which put the translator into the 
front rank of French stylists. He strikes the note of variety 
among the satellites of Marguerite, chief among whom was 
the poet Clement Marot (1497-1544). Son of a poet and 
student of the work of this century's first eminent versifier, 
Le Maire de Beiges, Marot soon attracted Marguerite's 



108 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

attention and became attached to her person as he was later 
to that of Francis. His Protestant belief got him into many 
troubles and he vibrated between the court and exile. His 
muse seems to have been unquenched by adversity and 
through all changes of fortune he wrote poetry of abundant 
charm, and marked by greater ease of form than belonged to 
his predecessors. He was a student as well as a writer, and 
in this capacity he did excellent service by modernizing the 
"Romance of the Rose." His poems were so popular as to 
win for him many imitators who strove to achieve the "Ma- 
rotic style," rich in epigram and marked by a simplicity 
which was in strong contrast to the stilted expressions and 
restricted forms of his predecessors. Here is an address 

* TO ANNE 

When thou art near to me, it seems 

As if the sun along the sky, 
Though he awhile withheld his beams, 

Burst forth in glowing majesty; 

But like a storm that lowers on high, 
Thy absence clouds the scene again: — 

Alas ! that from so sweet a joy 

Should spring regret so full of pain! 



* THE PORTRAIT 

This dear resemblance of thy lovely face, 

'Tis true, is painted with a master's care; 
But one far better still my heart can trace, 

For Love himself engraved the image there. 
Thy gift can make my soul blest visions share; 

But brighter still, dear love, my joys would shine, 
Were I within thy heart impressed as fair, 

As true, as vividly, as thou in mine! 

* From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe." 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 109 

BALLADE OF FRERE LUBIN 

(Translated by Andrew Lang) 

Some ten or twenty times a day, 
To bustle to the town with speed, 
To dabble in what dirt he may, — 
Le Fr&re Lubin's the man you need! 
But any sober life to lead 
Upon an exemplary plan, 
Requires a Christian indeed, — 
Le Frere Lubin is not the man! 

Another's "pile" on his to lay, 
With all the craft of guile and greed, 
To leave you bare of pence or pay, — 
Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! 
But watch him with the closest heed, 
And dun him with what force you can, — 
He'll not refund, howe'er you plead, — 
Le Frere Lubin is not the man! 

An honest girl to lead astray, 

With subtle saw and promised meed, 

Requires no cunning crone and grey,— 

Le Frere Lubin's the man you need ! 

He preaches an ascetic creed, 

But, — try him with the water can — 

A dog will drink, whate'er his breed, — 

Le Frere Lubin is not the manl 

Envoy 

In good to fail, in ill succeed, 
Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! 
In honest works to lead the van, 
Le Frere Lubin is not the man! 

TO DIANE DE POITIERS 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

Farewell! since vain is all my care, 

Far, in some desert rude, 
I'll hide my weakness, my despair; 

And, midst my solitude, 



HO THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

I'll pray, that, should another move thee, 
He may as fondly, truly love thee. 

Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven! 

Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms! 
Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given, 

Which Love inhabits and illumes! 
Your rays have fallen but coldly on me: 
One far less fond, perchance, has won ye! 

Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585) followed Marot in time but 
not in method, for he struck out a new path. True, he wrote 
on the themes that naturally suggested themselves to a court 
poet, but he had travelled much and had had experience of 
other lands and other courts, and in this way he picked up 
a variety of information which he turned to patriotic account 
for the improvement of his country's letters. Language and 
literatures alike were weak, he declared, through leaning too 
long on Greek and Latin, and he declared for originality in 
idea and in execution. He strove to enrich the language by 
using existing words in a new way — converting a noun into 
a verb, and employing technical terms figuratively — and also 
by giving a French form to words borrowed from any other 
language that he happened to know r . His enthusiasm stirred 
a group of friends to like ardor, and the seven young men 
who formed "the Pleiad e" worked hard in the service of 
France and the Muses. Not only were their efforts successful 
at the time, but when the classical shackles of the seventeenth 
and eighteenth century were thrown off by the romantic 
movement of the mid-nineteenth it was the influence of the 
Pleiade that gave the incentive. 

The members of the Pleiade were Joachim du Bellay, 
Antoine de Baif, Pontus de Thyard, Remi Belleau, Jean 
Dorat, Etienne Jodelle, and Ronsard, who surpassed them 
all in talent, in perseverance, and above all in popularity. 
Ladies loved him, princes flattered, yet he withdrew into a 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH in 

life of semi-seclusion and devoted himself to his self-imposed 
task. 

Great people — Queen Elizabeth of England among them — 
made Ronsard valuable gifts. Mary, Queen of Scots, sent 
him a silver Parnassus, probably as a mark of appreciation 
for the following lines. 

TO MARY STUART 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

All beauty, granted as a boon to earth, 
That is, has been, or ever can have birth, 
Compared to hers, is void, and nature's care 
Ne'er formed a creature so divinely fair. 

In spring amidst the lilies she was born, 
And purer tints her peerless face adorn; 
And though Adonis' blood the rose may paint, 
Beside her bloom the rose's hues are faint: 

With all his richest store Love decked her eyes: 
The Graces each, those daughters of the skies, 
Strove which should make her to the world most dear, 
And, to attend her, left their native sphere. 

The day that was to bear her far away, — 

Why was I mortal to behold that day? 

O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen! 

Or that my eyes a ceaseless fount had been, 

That I might weep as weep amid their bowers, 

The nymphs, when winter winds have cropped their flowers, 

Or when rude torrents the clear streams deform, i 

Or when the trees are riven by the storm! 

Or rather, would that I some bird had been, 

Still to be near her in each changing scene, 

Still on the highest mast to watch all day, 

And like a star to mark her vessel's way: 

The dangerous billows past, on shore, on sea, 

Near that dear face it still were mine to be. 



112 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

O France, where are thy ancient champions gone, — 
Roland, Rinaldo? — is there living none 
Her steps to follow and her safety guard, 
And deem her lovely looks their best reward, — 
Which might subdue — pride of mighty Jove 
To leave his heaven, and languish for her love? 
No fault is hers, but in her royal state, — 
For simple Love dreads to approach the great; 
He flies from regal pomp, that treacherous snare, 
Where truth unmarked may wither in despair. 

Wherever destiny her path may lead, 
Fresh-springing flowers will bloom beneath her tread, 
All nature will rejoice, the waves be bright, 
The tempest check its fury at her sight, 
The sea be calm; her beauty to behold, 
The sun shall crown her with his rays of gold, — 
Unless he fears, should he approach her throne, 
Her majesty should quite eclipse his own. 

A series of charming poems addressed "To Helen" has 
long been a mark for delighted translators. Of them all none 
is more widely quoted than this. 

TO HELEN IN HER OLD AGE 

(Paraphrased by William Makepeace Thackeray) 

Some winter night, shut snugly in 

Beside the fagot in the hall, 
I think I see you sit and spin, 

Surrounded by your maidens all. 
Old tales are told, old songs are sung, 

Old days come back to memory; 

You say, "When I was fair and young, 

A poet sang of me!" 

There's not a maiden in your hall, 

Though tired and sleepy ever so, 
But wakes, as you my name recall, 

And longs the history to know, 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 113 

And, as the piteous tale is said, 

Of lady cold and lover true, 
Each, musing, carries it to bed, 

And sighs and envies you. 

"Our lady's old and feeble now," 

They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, 
And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, 

And heartless left him to despair ! 
The lover lies in silent earth, 

No kindly mate the lady cheers; 
She sits beside a lonely hearth, 

With threescore and ten years." 

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, 

But wherefore yield me to despair, 
While yet the poet's bosom glows, 

While yet the dame is peerless fair! 
Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time 

Requite my passion and my truth, 
And gather in their blushing prime 

The roses of your youth ! 

Of the other members of the Pleiade, Joachim de Bellay's 
(1522-1560) graceful "Hymn" was quoted in Chapter II. A 
tribute to Rabelais will represent at his best de Baif (1532- 
1589) who was usually rather more constrained in expression. 

EPITAPH ON RABELAIS 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

Pluto, bid Rabelais welcome to thy shore, 

That thou, who art the King of woe and pain, 

Whose subjects never learned to laugh before, 
May boast a laughter in thy grim domain. 

To Jodelle (1532-1573) belongs the honor of having 
written the first technically regular tragedy and comedy on 
the French stage. His light verse has the charm that belongs 
to all the group. 



114 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

TO MME. DE PRIMADIS 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

I saw thee weave a web with care, 
Where, at thy touch, fresh roses grew, 
• And marvelled they were formed so fair, 
And that thy heart such nature knew: 
Alas! how idle my surprise! 

Since naught so plain can be: 
Thy cheek their richest hue supplies, 
And in thy breath their perfume lies, — 
Their grace, their beauty, all are drawn for thee! 

As delicate and fresh as his theme is Belleau's (1528- 
1577) 

APRIL 

(Translated by Andrew Lang) 

April, pride of woodland ways, 

Of glad days, 
April, bringing hope of prime, 
To the young flowers that beneath 

Their bud sheath 
Are guarded in their tender time. 

April, pride of fields that be 

Green and free, 
That in fashion glad and gay, 
Stud with flowers red and blue, 

Every hue, 
Their jewelled spring array. 

April, pride of murmuring 

Winds of spring, 
That beneath the winnowed air, 
Trap with subtle nets and sweet 

Flora's feet, 
Flora's feet, the fleet and fair. 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 115 

April, by thy hand caressed, 

From her breast 
Nature scatters every where 
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, 

Buds and blooms, 
Making faint the earth and air. 

April, joy of the green hours, 

Clothes with flowers 
Over all her locks of gold 
My sweet Lady, and her breast 

With the blest 
Buds of summer manifold. 

April, with thy gracious wiles 

Like the smiles, 
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath 
Like her breath, the gods' delight, 

(From their height 
They take the happy air beneath;) 

It is thou that, of thy grace, 

From their place 
In the far-off isles dost bring 
Swallows over earth and sea, 

Glad to be 
Messengers of thee, and Spring. 

Daffodil and eglantine, 

And woodbine, 
Lily, violet, and rose 
Plentiful in April fair, 

To the air, 
Their pretty petals do unclose. 

Nightingales ye now may hear, 

Piercing clear, 
Singing in the deepest shade; 
Many and many a babbled note 

Chime and float, 
Woodland music through the glade. 



Ii6 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

April, all to welcome thee, 

Spring sets free 
Ancient flames, and with low breath 
Wakes the ashes grey and old 

That the cold 
Chilled within our hearts to death. 

Thou beholdest in the warm 

Hours, the swarm 
Of the thievish bees, that flies 
Evermore from bloom to bloom 

For perfume, 
Hid away in tiny thighs. 

Her cool shadows May can boast, 

Fruits almost 
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, 
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, 

That complete 
Her flower garland fresh and new. 

Nay, but I will give my praise 

To these days, 
Named with the glad name of Her * 
That from out the foam of the sea 

Came to be 
Sudden light on earth and air. 

These verse makers may be said to belong chiefly to the 
first half of the century. The later years were too filled with 
the distress of the religious contests to give much thought to 
the lighter vein. In prose, however, there was some strong 
work accomplished. Michel L'Hopital (1505-1573), 
Catharine de Medici's adviser, was an orator, and also wrote 
intelligently and with great good sense on politics and govern- 
ment and the religious disturbances of the times. Palissy, 
the potter (15 10-1589), famous for his enamels, was an 
archaeologist, a geologist, an engineer, a chemist, and a 

* Aprodite — Avril. 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 117 

nature student, and in this catholic variety of tastes he found 
material for many books and treatises on scientific subjects. 
Like her great-aunt, Francis Ts sister, in love of writing 
as well as in name, Marguerite of Navarre (1553-1615), 
daughter of Catharine de Medici and sister of three Kings, 
Francis II, Charles IX, and Henry III, had a ready pen, 
though she was not especially graceful. Her life was exciting 
enough to furnish her with ample material for chronicles. 
Her brother, Charles IX, insisted on her marrying Henry of 
Navarre (later Henry IV) as a means of uniting the clashing 
parties. Marguerite declined but her objection counted for 
nothing. The marriage was solemnized in the square before 
Notre Dame and when the princess refused to give her assent 
her brother roughly seized her head and bobbed it toward the 
Archbishop who went on with the ceremony as if she had 
acted of her own accord. Six days after the marriage occurred 
the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, and Marguerite tells in 
her "Memoirs" of her experiences in connection with it. 

King Charles, who was very prudent and who had always been very 
obedient to the queen, my mother, and a very Catholic prince, seeing 
also whither it was all tending, took a sudden resolution to unite with 
the queen, his mother, and to conform to her will, and to steer clear 
of the Huguenots by the aid of the Catholics, not without feeling, never- 
theless, extreme regret at being unable to save Teligny, La Noue, and 
M. de la Rochefoucault. And then, going to find the queen his mother 
he caused inquiry to be made for M. de Guise and all the other Catholic 
princes and captains, among whom the decision was made to accomplish 
the massacre of St. Bartholomew that very night. And swiftly setting 
their hands to the task they had all the chains stretched across the streets, 
and when the tocsin sounded every one ran from his quarter according 
to orders, not only to seek the Admiral but all the Huguenots. M. de 
Guise went to the Admiral's house where Besme, a German gentleman, 
had gone upstairs to his room, and after killing him with a dagger-thrust, 
had thrown him out of the window to M. de Guise. 

They told us nothing about all this. I saw everybody in action, the 
Huguenots desperate over this attack; M. de Guise fearful lest they take 
^ engeance on him, whispering to everybody. The Huguenots suspected 



118 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

me because I was a Catholic, and the Catholics because I had married 
the King of Navarre, who was a Huguenot. On this account no one 
said anything to me about it until evening, when, being in the bedroom 
of the queen, my mother, seated on a chest beside my sister of Lorraine 
whom I saw to be very sad, as the queen my mother was speaking to 
some of them she noticed me and told me to go to bed. As I was courte- 
sying to her my sister, weeping bitterly, seized my arm and stopped me, 
saying; "0 sister, don't go." I was greatly frightened. The queen my 
mother saw it and called my sister and scolded her severely, forbidding 
her to say anything to me. My sister told her that there was no reason 
to sacrifice me like that, and that if they discovered anything they un- 
doubtedly would avenge themselves on me. The queen my mother 
replied that if God so willed I should come to no harm, but, whatever 
happened, I must go, for fear of their suspecting something which would 
impede the outcome. 

I saw quite well that they were disputing though I did not hear their 
words. Again she roughly ordered me to go to bed. My sister burst 
into tears as she bade me good night, daring to say nothing more to me, 
and I went away thoroughly stunned and overcome, without under- 
standing at all what I had to fear. Suddenly when I was in my dressing 
room I began to pray God to take me under his protection and preserve 
me, without knowing from what or whom. Upon that the King my hus- 
band who had retired, summoned me to his room and I found his bed 
surrounded by thirty or forty Huguenots whom I did not then know, for 
I had only been married a few days. They talked all night about the 
accident that had befallen the Admiral, resolving that as soon as morn- 
ing came they would ask the King for revenge on M. de Guise and that 
if he would not give it to them they would take it for themselves. I 
still had my sister's tears upon my mind and I could not sleep because 
of the fear she had inspired in me, though I knew not of what. Thus 
the night passed without my closing my eyes. At daybreak the King 
my husband, suddenly making up his mind to ask justice from King 
Charles, said that he was going to play tennis until the King should 
awake. He left my room and all the gentlemen also. I, seeing that it 
was daylight, thinking that the danger of which my sister had spoken 
to me was passed by, overcome with sleep, told my nurse to shut the 
door that I might sleep comfortably. 

An hour after as I was still sleeping there came a man who beat on 
the door with hands and feet crying, "Navarre, Navarre !" My nurse, 
thinking that it was the King my husband ran at once to the door and 
opened it. It was a gentleman named Leran who had received a sword 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 119 

thrust in the elbow and a blow on the arm from a halberd, and who was 
still pursued by four archers who all rushed after him into my room. 
He, wishing to save himself, flung himself on my bed. When I felt the 
man grasp me I flung myself out of bed, and he rolled after me, still 
clinging to me. I did not recognize the man, and I did not know whether 
he was there to attack me, or whether the archers were after him or me. 
We both screamed and we were equally frightened. At last by God's 
will M. de Nan cay, captain of the guards, came. When he saw in what 
a state I was, though he was sorry he could not help laughing. He rep- 
rimanded the guards severely for their indiscretion, sent them away 
and he granted to my request the life of the man who was still holding 
on to me. I made him lie down and have his wounds dressed in my dress- 
ing room until he was quite recovered. I had to change my clothes for 
the wounded man had covered me with blood. M. de Nancay told 
me what had happened and assured me that the King my husband was in 
the King's room and that there would be no more disturbance. I threw 
a mantle over me and he escorted me to my sister, Madame de Lorraine's, 
room, where I arrived more dead than alive. Just as I entered the ante- 
chamber, where the doors were all open, a gentleman named Bourse, 
escaping from the pursuit of the archers was pierced by a halberd thrust 
only three paces away. I fell in the opposite direction into M. de Nan- 
fay's arms thinking that the thrust had stabbed us both. When I had 
recovered somewhat I went into the small room where my sister was 
sleeping. While I was there M. de Mixossans, the King my husband's 
first gentleman-in- waiting, and Armagnac, his first valet-de-chambre, 
sought me out to beg me to save their lives. I knelt before the king and 
queen my mother to beg the favor from them and at last they granted it 
to me. 

To the "Satire Menippee," a collection of clever papers 
written by Catholics, yet satirizing the work of the Holy 
League against Marguerite's husband, Henry of Navarre, 
was due in part the Catholic sympathy which supported him 
as Henry IV. The pamphlet was written by Gillot. a canon 
of the Sainte Chapelle in Paris, in collaboration with a half 
dozen of his friends. It is in the form of a burlesque report of 
a meeting of the States General, and gives descriptions and 
speeches in a vein of keenest satire. This selection shows 
something of its tone. 



120 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

PARIS IN THE TIME OF THE LEAGUE 

O Paris who are no longer Paris but a den of ferocious beasts, a citadel 
of Spaniards, Walloons and Neapolitans, an asylum and safe retreat for 
robbers, murderers and assassins, will you never be cognizant of your 
dignity and remember who you have been and what you are; will you 
never heal yourself of this frenzy which has engendered for you in place 
of lawful and gracious King, fifty saucy kinglets and fifty tyrants? You 
are in chains, under a Spanish Inquisition, a thousand times more in- 
tolerable and harder to endure by spirits born free and unconstrained, 
as the French are, than the crudest deaths which the Spaniards could 
devise. You did not tolerate a slight increase of taxes and of offices and 
a few new edicts which did not concern you at all, yet you endure that 
they pillage houses, that they ransom you with blood, that they imprison 
your senators, that they drive out and banish your good citizens and 
counsellors; that they hang and massacre your principal magistrates; 
you see it and endure it; you not only endure it but you approve it and 
praise it, and you would not dare or know how to do otherwise. You 
have given little support to your King, good-tempered, easy, friendly, 
who behaved like a fellow-citizen of your town which he had enriched 
and embellished with handsome buildings, fortified with strong and 
haughty ramparts, honored with privileges and favorable exemptions. 
What say I? Given little support? Far worse; you have driven him 
from his city, his house, his very bed! Driven him? You have pursued 
him. Pursued him? You assassinated him, canonized the assassin and 
made joyful over his death. And now you see how much this death 
profited you. 

Even in the midst of his strenuous life, Henry (who 
reigned 1589-1598) found time to give himself to the amen- 
ities, and that he could turn a graceful verse himself is shown 
in his poem 

CHARMING GABRIELLE 

(Translated by Louisa Stuart Costello) 

My charming Gabrielle! 

My heart is pierced with woe, 
When glory sounds her knell, 

And forth to war I go; 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 121 

Parting, perchance our last! 

Day, marked unblest to prove! 
O, that my life were past, 

Or else my hapless love! 

Bright star, whose light I lose, — 

O, fatal memory! 
My grief each thought renews! — 
We meet again or die ! 

Parting, perchance our last! 

Day, marked unblest to prove! 
O, that my life were past, 
Or else my hapless love! 

O, share and bless the crown 

By valor given to me! 
War made the prize my own, 
My love awards it thee! 

Parting, perchance our last! 

Day, marked unblest to prove! 
O, that my life were past, 
Or else my hapless love! 

Let all my trumpets swell, 

And every echo round 
The words of my farewell, 
Repeat with mournful sound! 

Parting, perchance our last! 

Day, marked unblest to prove 
0, that my life were past, 
Or else my hapless love! 

Mathurin Regnier (1573-1613) a nephew of Desportes, 
a poet of note in his day, brought to the close of the century 
a love of the classic spirit combined with a freshness of ex- 
pression, a keenness of observation united with a delicate wit 
that come near to making him one of the foremost of French 
poets. His happiest form was the satire. He wrote his own 

EPITAPH 
I've lived my life without a care 
In happy peace and comfort rare, 



122 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

With nature's kindness fraught; 
Surprise is mine and quite unfeigned 
Why death to think of me has deigned 
Who ne'er of her have thought. 

One of Regnier's keenest satires discussed Francois de 
Malherbe (1555-1628) whom he describes in far from com- 
plimentary terms. 

But who is this that shuffles in with such a sour face? 

A Chinese god with looks like these would feel it a disgrace! 

His heavy conversation, too, so lacking is in wit # 

A saint in Heaven, hearing, would his sides with laughter split. 

For Malherbe Regnier felt an animosity based not only on 
personal reasons — Malherbe and Desportes had quarreled — 
but on professional grounds. Malherbe professed Ronsard's 
dignity of tone and in addition a purity of diction which 
turned from the earlier poet's invented words to those of 
more orthodox lineage. His belief in the value of exquisite 
speech made him lay down laws of versification and of ex- 
pression which were looked upon with respect by his con- 
temporaries and which practically laid the foundation for the 
exactnesses of the classical school in the next century. His 
final impress is on language rather than on literature. His 
best poems are thought to be some verses of "Consolation" 
addressed to Monsieur Perier on the death of his daughter, 
Rose, and some lines of congratulation dedicated to Marie de 
Medici. Here is a panegyric on 

PEACE 

(Translated by J. Ravenel Smith) 
In Peace it is that smoothly flows 
Life's stream of leisure; 
As in the springtime blooms the rose 
In Peace blooms pleasure. 
She fills the teeming mead with corn and grass, 
And sets to merry dance both lad and lass. 



THE CENTURY OF BEGINNINGS— THE SIXTEENTH 123 

Strength and respect to the land's laws she brings, 
The sinew of their power in field and town; 
With sure and steadfast hand the royal crown 
She places firmly on the heads of Kings. 

Of Malherbe's contemporaries, Francois de Maynard 
(1 582-1 646), like Regnier, could not forbear aiming satirical 
shafts at the professed dean of poetry. Addressing Malherbe 
he says: 

The poems that you indite 

Are all obscure and dark; 

Your speech is like a night 

Bereft of Nature's spark. 

My friend, drive far indeed 

Such sombre illustrations; 

Your writings all have need 

Of liberal explanations. 

If your wit wants to hide 

Its lovely thoughts from light, 

Why not in silence bide? 

Pray tell me — am I right? 

A great admirer of Malherbe was the Marquis de Racan 
(1589-1670), who had been a page at court and then an 
officer, and who remained bluff and simple in manner and 
inelegant in appearance, but endowed with a love of nature 
that expressed itself in exquisite diction. Here is an account 
ostensibly of his own career which deftly flatters Louis XIII's 
military prowess. 

I've followed him through mortal fight; 

Seen rebels crushed with heavy hand; 

Seen forts destroyed throughout the land 

Beneath his arm's victorious might. 

I've seen him force the Alpine pass 

Where summits send through clouds their mass, 

Where threatened are imperial peaks 

Before his fearful lightning stroke, 

Whose sounding thunder hoarsely speaks 

The knell that o'er La Rochelle broke. 



CHAPTER VI 
THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 

When Henry IV's conversion (1593) put that canny mon- 
arch in a position to gather up the ragged ends of France's 
social life he found the cleavage that had formerly existed 
along the horizontal lines of class now separating members of 
the same class. Nobles, whether Catholic or Protestant, 
were not only impoverished in estate from the civil war's 
drain on their resources, they were also bankrupt of con- 
fidence in their fellows who had played the roles of neighbor 
or foe with equal facility. Burghers were no longer united 
by the fairness of the towns they all loved. Peasants, 
shuffled about like pawns by their superiors, were too much 
occupied in wringing a support from a reluctant soil to have 
any corporate feeling. 

All three classes found themselves in that disordered state 
of which a strong man may take advantage to his own profit. 
Henry proved himself that man and his profit lay in his mak- 
ing himself indispensable to all, and thereby adding to the 
power which the kings had long been centering in their royal 
persons. His attitude was not wholly selfish. The improve- 
ments which he instituted with the help of his minister, the 
Duke of Sully, added to the glory of France, but they also 
made life during the last twenty years of his reign not only 
endurable but desirable. Even the peasant, too insignificant 
to be despised in those days when he was looked on as a 
cumberer of the earth and not as a producer, attained a cer- 
tain degree of comfort. Henry was hail-fellow-well-met with 
all folk of low degree and he is said to have had the praise- 

124 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 125 

worthy ambition so to improve the condition of the poor 
that every cottager should have a boiled fowl for his Sunday 
dinner. 

Louis, who reigned from 16 10 to 1643, was but a child 
when his father died, and the policy of the queen-regent, 
Marie de Medici, within four years of her accession turned 
France into a hunting-ground for foreign grafters and for 
Frenchmen greedy of land and power. Nobles were bought 
off when they objected to the outrageous expenditures of the 
government, to the heavy taxation that provided for them, 
and to the restrictions in trade that made such provision 
increasingly burdensome. The States General was convened 
but snubbed; Marie's Italian favorite quarrelled and plun- 
dered; Louis's French favorite assassinated; the Huguenot 
party w^as in revolt; the peasant was once more in that state 
which those higher up seemed to consider his natural condi- 
tion, but which he was beginning to regard with an under- 
standing lighted by the ever-increasing fire of a dull-burning 
sense of injustice. 

The country was drifting again into the chaos from which 
Henry IV had rescued it, when Richelieu, after some personal 
vicissitudes, grasped the tiller with a firm hand, guided by an 
intelligent and far-seeing brain. His internal policy built up 
the royal authority by giving a stable support to all classes, 
all occupations, all commerce, all art which was content to 
lean upon the royal power; and by subduing ruthlessly all 
such as betrayed any flickerings of independence. His justice 
was absolutely impartial; he granted the peasant admission 
to tribunals as readily as he destroyed noblemen's castles; 
he beheaded the count as promptly as the bourgeois; he 
conquered the Huguenots and then confirmed the rights given 
them by the Edict of Nantes. The poor gained in self- 
respect, but they, like the rest, achieved no smallest political 
advance. 



126 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

In foreign affairs Richelieu's chief move was against Spain, 
France's long time rival, and he made it directly by meeting 
Spain in Italy and by reaching out toward the Spanish 
Netherlands, and indirectly by opposing any stand taken by 
the Emperor of Germany whose relations with Spain were 
both family and political. This effort put Richelieu in the 
anomalous position of fighting the Protestants in his own 
country and supporting them in Germany, but he acted as 
whole-heartedly abroad as at home. 

Louis XIII's accession was 'almost contemporaneous with 
that of the Stuarts in England. The son of Mary Queen of 
Scots, James I of England and VI of Scotland, whom Henry 
of Navarre stigmatized as the "wisest fool in Christendom," 
came to the throne in 1603 and was succeeded in 1625 by his 
son Charles I who married Henrietta Maria of France, 
daughter of the caustic Henry IV and sister of Louis XIII. 
Both James and Charles believed themselves divinely ap- 
pointed for kingly rule, but the English people had been in 
training for democracy for several centuries and Charles lost 
his head (in 1649) nearly a century and a half before the 
French popular movement gathered impetus for the execution 
of Louis XVI. 

Louis XIII's death followed but a half year after Riche- 
lieu's, and then France came again into the hands of a child 
king, Louis XIV (1638-1715), of a queen-regent, Anne of 
Austria, and of a cardinal-statesman, Mazarin. 

The foreign war seemed the most important matter to 
push, and the French armies met with such success that five 
years after Louis' accession the emperor capitulated. France 
won both land and fame abroad, but she paid for it dearly at 
home. The heavy expenses of war so prolonged had been 
met by increasingly heavy taxation until the country was 
exhausted. Nobles, bourgeois, peasants — all were drained, 
and all classes were becoming more and more aroused by the 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 127 

irresponsible power of a government against which there was 
no appeal. A reform party calling itself the Fronde (sling) 
and made up of the Paris law courts, of the nobility, and of 
the Paris mob, directed a rather jaunty opposition against 
Mazarin, who was exiled for a time, but returned in triumph. 
The whole movement gained none of the points demanded — 
restraint of royal authority and recognition of the people's 
rights — and when the uproar was over the king was more 
firmly in the saddle than ever, while the people of the cities 
were impoverished and demoralized and the country folk 
were reduced to despair by the ruthless destruction of their 
scanty crops. Robbers wandered through the fields, thugs 
made town streets dangerous, babies were thrown into 
corners to die or were sold to serve as part of the professional 
beggar's stock in trade. 

Cardinal de Retz (1614-1679), in spite of his title a 
politician and an author rather than a man of religion, wrote 
about the middle of the century "Memoirs" of incalculable 
value to the student of history. His comparison of the two 
great cardinal-rulers of France is a thoroughly interesting 
contemporary analysis. 

RICHELIEU AND MAZARIN 

(From "Half Hours with the Best French Authors") 

Cardinal de Richelieu was of good birth. In his youth he showed 
signs of future merit. He distinguished himself at the Sorbonne, and 
it was early remarked that he possessed strength and vivacity of mind. 
He generally chose his side very well. He was a man of his word when any 
great interest did not force him to be otherwise; and in that case he 
never forgot anything by which he might preserve the appearance of 
good faith. He was not liberal, but he gave more than he promised, and 
he seasoned his gifts admirably. He loved glory much more than is 
consistent with morality, but it must be admitted that he did not abuse 
the license which he gave to his excessive ambition beyond the pro- 
portion of his merit. He had neither mind nor heart above danger, nor 



128 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

yet did they sink beneath it; and it may be said that he prevented more 
danger by his wisdom than he surmounted by his firmness. 

He was a good friend — he even wished to be loved by the public; 
but although he had good manners, a pleasing exterior, and other qual- 
ities likely to produce that effect, he never had that indescribable some- 
thing which is more necessary than anything else. He eclipsed by his 
power and royal pomp the personal majesty of the king; but he per- 
formed all the functions of royalty with so much dignity, that it was only 
those who were above the vulgar that could see what was good and what 
evil in this case. He distinguished more judiciously than the mere man 
of the world between bad and worse, between good and better; which is 
a great quality in a minister. He became too easily impatient about 
the little things which were steps to great things; but this defect, which 
arises from elevation of mind, is always united to a clearness of under- 
standing which makes up for it. 

He had enough religion for this world. He did right either from in- 
clination or from good sense, except when his interest led him to do wrong; 
and then he knew perfectly that he was doing wrong even while he did 
it. He only considered the good of the state for his own life-time; and 
yet no minister ever took more pains to have it believed that he was 
ruling for the future. Lastly it must be confessed that all his vices were 
those which can only be brought into use by means of great virtues. 

You can easily imagine that a man who had such great qualities, and 
so much appearance, too, of those which he did not possess, easily pre- 
served for himself in the world that sort of respect which separates con- 
tempt from hatred, and which in a state that has no longer any laws 
makes up for the want of them — at least, for a time. 

The character of Cardinal Mazarin was just the reverse. His birth was 
low and his childhood one of shame. On leaving the Coliseum he learned 
to cheat, by which he earned a beating from a goldsmith of Rome named 
Moreto. He became a captain of infantry at Velteline, and Bagni, who 
was his general, has told me that he passed in the war, which only lasted 
three months, for nothing better than a sharper. He gained the office 
of nuncio extraordinary in France through the favor of Cardinal Antonio 
Barberini, which office was never gained at that time by fair means. 
He pleased Chavigni by his licentious Italian stories, and through 
Chavigni he pleased Richelieu, who made him Cardinal in the same spirit 
as that which impelled Augustus to leave the succession to the empire 
to Tiberius. The purple did not hinder him from remaining a servant 
under Richelieu. The queen having chosen him — for want of another, 
it is true, let people say what they will — he appeared at first as the 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 129 

original of Trivelino principe. Fortune having dazzled him and every- 
one else, he set himself up and was set up by others, for a Richelieu, but 
he gained by it only the impudence of imitation. He procured to him- 
self by shame all that the latter had procured by honor. He laughed 
at religion. He promised everything because he never meant to keep his 
word. He was neither gentle nor cruel, because he remembered neither 
benefits nor injuries. He loved himself too much, which is natural to 
cowardly souls: he feared himself too little, which is the character of 
those who do not care about their reputation. He foresaw evil well 
enough, because he was often frightened; but he did not as readily supply 
a remedy, because he was not so prudent as fearful. He possessed wit, 
insinuation, gayety and good manners, but his base heart appeared 
through everything, and to that degree that these qualities seemed in 
adversity quite ridiculous, and even in prosperity did not quite lose an 
appearance of imposture. He carried the tricks of a sharper into the 
ministry, which he alone has ever done, and these tricks made the min- 
istry, even when it was happy and prosperous, to appear unbecoming, 
and caused contempt to step in, which is the most dangerous malady 
of a state, and the contagion of which spreads most easily and quickly 
from the head to the members. 

Upon Mazarin's death Louis XIV took upon himself the 
control of affairs, and for the rest of his life worked hard at the 
task to which he sincerely believed that he was divinely 
appointed. If he divested his people of every particle of 
self-reliance it was because he truly thought himself to be 
possessed of a God-given intelligence which could decide for 
them better than they could decide for themselves. He 
made all favors to the nobility contingent upon their living 
where he could best observe their activities — that is, with 
him, in the huge palace at Versailles, whose gorgeousness so 
aroused the envy of the other monarchs of Europe that they 
nearly burst with envy, as La Fontaine described in the 
fable of 

THE FROG AND THE BULL 

A little frog beheld a lordly bull, 

Admired much his grand and massive build, 

While he, egg size, with envy sore was full. 



130 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

With air straightway his tiny lungs he filled 

And strove to change his puny size and grow. 

"My brother, look," determin'dly cried he. 

"Am I not now as large?" "Indeed, not so." 

"How now, then?" "No, indeed." "Now must I be!" 

"You still come nowhere near." In sheer despair 

The frog distended so his skin he burst in air. 

The world is full of people no more sage; 

The burgher's house adds on a princely wing, 

A retinue surrounds each petty king, 

Each petty marquis needs must have his page. 

The estates of the nobles meanwhile went from bad to 
worse without the supervision of their masters, though the 
administration of the king's paternal laws permitted the 
government officials to intrude upon every phase of life, 
domestic as well as public. 

As the courtiers became more and more subservient to the 
king's will they conformed more and more to his ideas of 
etiquette, and as his rules were based not on convenience or 
comfort or propriety but on a recognition of rank they be- 
came more and more regulated by command. Court life was 
one long round of discomfort and jealousy and was made 
duller because lived according to order. Yet it had the 
brilliancy that sometimes accompanies order without spon- 
taneity, the brilliancy of a marching column swinging along 
in a rhythm as perfect as it is lacking in individuality. Dress 
was magnificent, equipages were magnificent, appointments 
were magnificent; and as the court was, so the bourgeois tried 
to be. The wealthier tradesmen aped the courtiers in ap- 
pearance and in follies, and played the snob toward their 
poorer friends just as the nobles at Versailles behaved toward 
their relatives in the country. The external glory and rigid- 
ity and the inner discomfort was society's brand under 
Louis XIV. 

In the name of his master, Louis' minister, Colbert, en- 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 131 

couraged agriculture, industry and commerce, reorganized 
the country's finances, created a navy and built public works. 
With his court the most brilliant in Europe, his land sup- 
posedly the best-administered, and his power spreading in 
the New World, the "Sun King" determined to add to his 
glory by taking advantage of the improvement of his army 
under Louvois, the minister of war, and by making his power 
felt throughout Europe. He fought with the Spanish Nether- 
lands and with Holland, gained some valuable territory and 
bore himself so becomingly that enthusiastic Paris erected the 
triumphal arches of St. Denis and St. Martin in his honor 
and declared him worthy to be called "The Grand Mon- 
arch." 

At the same time the country was returning again to the 
state in which Mazarin had found it. The wars, prosecuted 
for fifteen years, had exhausted the treasury and taxation 
could draw no water from an empty well. Again the peas- 
antry were in straits almost unbelievable. Great numbers of 
them lived like pigs on roots, disease followed famine, and 
the stricken living were too weak to care for the dead who 
lay in the fields unburied and spreading pestilence. A 
woman was found dead, a child stirring at her breast and her 
mouth filled with grass, a wretched semblance of food. 

The only cheering side to this shocking picture is the true 
goodness of heart which it brought out in men and women 
who gave their lives to going about among the suffering, 
giving alms, nursing the sick, and caring for the orphans. 
Fortunately the king's failure to grasp his subjects' dire need 
was not shared by all of those about him, for many men 
and women of rank joined the benevolent or nursing semi- 
religious orders, and many of the clergy were outspoken in 
reproach as well as active in service. Fenelon, Archbishop 
of Cambrai, told his majesty frankly that all France was a 
hospital — a hospital unprovided with food. 



132 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

If any proof were needed that the king did not understand 
the pass to which France had come his next step would 
supply it. Drunken with his own importance Louis feared 
the democratic spirit inherent in the Huguenot movement. 
Protestantism had originated in independence of thought, 
and it called to its ranks bourgeois and peasant as well as 
noble. It seemed as if it might be the one bond possible to 
unite people otherwise separated by the great breach of class 
division, and as such a possibility the Grand Monarch feared 
its latent power against his absolutism. He revoked the 
Edict of Nantes and turned loose upon the Protestants a 
brutal soldiery whose methods of conversion read like the 
tortures by the American Indians upon the early settlers. 
Half a million of the most useful inhabitants of France, the 
men whose thrift and intelligence and skill had placed French 
crafts at the head of the world of crafts, fled the country, not 
only contributing their abilities to the advantage of the lands 
in which they took refuge, but also bearing with them a 
hatred of their persecutors which inspired them to fight with 
England under William of Orange against France and a 
thirst for independence which made them eager Americans 
in our war of the Revolution, ninety years later. 

Louis' impatience of any power that might cross his own 
showed itself not only in his attitude toward the Huguenots 
but in his behavior toward the pope, whose supremacy of the 
French Catholic Church he forced the French clergy to deny. 

The last years of Louis's reign were given over to wars in 
which the Duke of Marlborough made a glorious name for 
England and Queen Anne and which resulted in Louis's 
losing land, men, ships, treasure, power, and reputation. The 
Sun King died in 17 15 after a reign of seventy-two years, a 
poor man in the land which he had ruined; hated by the 
subjects whom he had impoverished. 

The long reign of Louis XIV corresponded to a troubled 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 133 

period in England. The Jacobite influence compassed the 
overthrow of the Commonwealth and the return in 1660 of 
the Stuarts in the person of Charles II. Charles's brother 
James succeeded him in 1685 and his "divine" pretensions 
brought to pass the Glorious Revolution of 1688 by w T hich his 
son-in-law, William of Orange, was called to the English 
throne. His accession strengthened the coalition of prac- 
tically all Europe against the Grand Monarch. The war 
waxed and waned for years not only in William's reign but 
in Anne's (from 1 701-17 14). 

English literature held some great names at this time. 
Shakspere's Sonnets appeared, Bacon published during the 
first decade, Raleigh wrote his "History of the World," 
Milton's stately music rang out for all time, Chapman and 
Wycherley and Congreve wrote plays, and Herrick, Suck- 
ling, and Lovelace sang charming lyrics, Evelyn and Pepys 
chattered about the news of the day, Dryden turned out 
rhythmical couplets, Bunyan gave his vision to the world. 

In a century of so many and such profound changes as 
occurred in France there should, it seems, have been an al- 
most infinite range of thought. History was making rapidly, 
the field of economics was being cultivated in a variety of 
ways, the philosophy of life was receiving ample material for 
that reflection which might find expression in writing or in 
political or pulpit oratory, the amenities were extravagantly 
encouraged by a court sufficiently dilettante yet of accurate 
judgment as to finenesses both of thought and expression. 

For the discussion of all these themes there arose writers 
of many classes. Courtiers wrote memoirs, romances, plays, 
verse; clerics penned their meditations or scored society's 
faults from the pulpit; educated bourgeois developed many 
literary forms. 

Nor were these literary men without encouragement. 
Richelieu had a pretty taste in letters and kept a group of 



134 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

writers, among them Corneille, working out his plots. He 
started (1631) the Gazette de France, the first French news- 
paper permitted to mention politics; and he established 
(1635) the French Academy. The cardinal's real object was 
to have a band of men on whom he could rely to defend the 
government by their pens. The ostensible purpose of the 
institution was to preserve the purity of the French language. 
It still persists in its guardianship, and has at least kept slang 
out of its authorized dictionary if not out of conversation. 
Membership is the highest honor that France can give to a 
writer, and its forty members, the "Immortals," have 
"crowned" with approval many worthy — not always stim- 
ulating — books. One of its earliest duties was to decide as to 
the merits of Corneille's "Cid," which they did with such 
diplomacy that nobody was satisfied. 

An unofficial source of encouragement to the wielders of 
the pen was the Hotel de Rambouillet, the earliest and 
most famous of the literary salons wherein conversation be- 
came an art, delicate literary expression a science, and 
criticism an application of cultivated discernment. Three 
women of charm and cleverness presided over these salons, 
the Marquise de Rambouillet and her two daughters. The 
meetings were held first at about the time of Henry IV's 
death (1610), and were the natural coming together of a 
group of people eager to create an atmosphere more refined 
than that of the court of the fighting and practical Henry of 
Navarre. Richelieu approved of them, but the quarrelsome 
days of Louis XIII were not conducive to gentleness, and the 
reaction from them produced an exaggerated carefulness of 
expression, a preciosite or "preciousness" that was ridiculous 
though sincere. To call a chair a "wherewithal for conversa- 
tion" would seem at least to hinder the briskness of the de- 
sired interchange. Purity of speech was not the only stand- 
ard set by the frequenters of the Hotel de Rambouillet; they 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 135 

redeemed spoken language from vulgarity — they also wrought 
a real improvement in the literature and even in the thought 
of the time. The most brilliant period of the Hotel de Ram- 
bouillet corresponded with the height of Richelieu's power — 
from about 1630-1650, and every worth-while writer, thinker 
and talker in France was welcomed there by kindred spirits. 
As provincial towns are inclined to ape the city so society 
in the smaller cities adopted a literary air and "preciousness" 
of speech. Moliere's play, " Les Precieuses Ridicules" bur- 
lesques these imitators. 

THE AFFECTED LADIES * 
PERSONS REPRESENTED 

h% G ^l'\ ejected lovers. 

Gorgibus, a worthy citizen. 

Marquis of Mascarille, valet to La Grange. 

Viscount of Jodelet, valet to Du Croisy. 

Almanzor, page to Madelon and Cathos. 

Madelon, daughter to Gorgibus. 

Cathos, niece to Gorgibus. 

Marotte, maid to Madelon and Cathos. 

Porters, neighbours, musicians. 

Scene I. — La Grange, Du Croisy 

Du Cro. I say, La Grange. 

La Gra. What? 

Du Cro. Look at me a little without laughing. 

La Gra. Well! 

Du Cro. What do you think of our visit; are you much pleased with 
it? 

La Gra. Has either of us reason to be so, in your opinion? 

Du Cro. No great reason, if the truth be told. 

La Gra. For my part I am dreadfully put out about it. Did ever 
anybody meet with a couple of silly country wenches giving themselves 
such airs as these? Did ever anybody see two men treated with more 
contempt than we were? It was as much as they could do to bring them- 
selves to order chairs for us. I never saw such whispering, such yawning, 
such rubbing of eyes, such constant asking what o'clock it was. Why, 
they answered nothing but yes or no to all we said to them. Don't you 
think with me, that had we been the meanest persons in the world, they 
could hardly have behaved more rudely than they did? 

Du Cro. You seem to take it very much to heart. 

* Courtesy of The Macmillan Company. 



I3 6 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

La Gra. I should think I do. I feel it so much that I am determined 
to be revenged on them for .their impertinence. I know well enough 
what made them look so coldly upon us: euphuism not only infects 
Paris, but has spread all over the country, and our absurd damsels have 
inhaled their good share of it. In a word, they are a compound of ped- 
antry and affectation. I see pretty well what a man must be like to be 
well received by them, and if you take my advice, we will play them a 
trick which shall show them their folly, and teach them in future to 
judge people with more discernment. 

Du Cro. All right; but how will you manage it? 

La Gra. I have a certain valet, named Mascarille, who in the opinion 
of many people passes for a kind of wit,-— nothing is cheaper now-a- 
days than wit, — an absurd fellow, who has taken into his head to ape 
the man of rank. He prides himself upon love-intrigues and poetry, and 
despises those of his own condition, so far as to call them vulgar wretches. 

Du Cro. And what use do you intend to make of him? 

La Gra. I will tell you; he must .... but let us first get 
away from here. 

Scene II. — Gorgibus, Du Croisy, La Grange 

Gor. Well, gentleman, you have seen my daughter and my niece; 
did all run smoothly? what is the result of your visit? 

La Gra. This you may better learn from them than from us; all 
we can say is, that we thank you for the honour you have done us, and 
remain your most humble servants. 

Du Cro. And remain your most humble servants. 

{Exeunt.) 

Gor. Heyday! They seem to go away dissatisfied; what can have 
displeased them? I must know what's the matter. I say there! 

Scene III. — Gorgibus, Marotte 

Mar. Did you call, sir? 

Gor. Where are your mistresses? 

Mar. In their dressing-room, sir. 

Gor. What are they doing? 

Mar. Making lip-salve. 

Gor. They are always making salve. Tell them to come down. 

{Exit Marotte.) 
Scene IV. — Gorgibus 

I believe these foolish girls have determined to ruin me with their 
ointments. I see nothing about here but white of eggs, milk of roses, 
and a thousand fiddle-faddles that I know nothing about. Since we 
came here they have used the fat of a dozen hogs at least, and four 
servants might live on the sheep's trotters they daily require. 

Scene V. — Madelon, Cathos, Gorgibus 

Gor. There is great need, surely, for you to spend so much money 
in greasing your nozzles! Tell me, please, what you can have done to 
those gentlemen, that I see them going away so coldly. Did I not ask 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 137 

you to receive them as persons whom I intended to give you for hus- 
bands? 

Mad. What! my father, could you expect us to have any regard 
for the unconventional proceedings of such people? 

Cat. What! my uncle, could you expect any girl, to the smallest 
extent in her senses, to reconcile herself to their persons? 

Gor. And what is there the matter with them? 

Mad. A fine way of making love to be sure, to begin at once with 
marriage! 

Gor. And what would you have them begin with — concubinage? 
Does not their conduct honour you as much as it does me? Can any- 
thing be more complimentary to you? and is not the sacred bond they 
propose a proof of the honesty of their intentions? 

Mad. Ah! father, how all you are saying betrays the vulgarity of 
your taste; I am ashamed to hear you speak as you do, and really you 
should make yourself acquainted with the fashionable air of things. 

Gor. I care neither for airs nor songs. I tell you that marriage is a 
holy and sacred thing, and that they acted like honourable men in speak- 
ing of it to you from the first. 

Mad. Really, if everybody was like you, how soon a love-romance 
would be ended! What a fine thing it would have been if at starting 
Cyrus had married Mandane, and Aronce had been given straight off 
to Clelie! * 

Gor. What in the world is the girl talking about! 

Mad. My cousin will tell you, as well as I, that marriage, my father, 
should never take place till after other adventures. A lover who wants 
to be attractive should know how to utter noble sentiments, to sigh deli- 
cate, tender, and rapturous vows. He should pay his addresses according 
to rules. In the first place, it should be either at church or in the prom- 
enade, or at some public ceremony, that he first sees the fair one with 
whom he falls in love ; or else fate should will his introduction to her by a 
relation or a friend, and he should leave her house thoughtful and melan- 
choly. For a while, he conceals his love from the object of his passion, 
but in the meantime pays her several visits, during which he never fails 
to start some subject of gallantry to exercise the thoughts of the assem- 
bled company. The day arrives for him to make his declaration. This 
should take place usually in some leafy garden-walk, whilst everybody 
is out of hearing. The declaration is followed by our immediate dis- 
pleasure, which shows itself by our blushing, and causes our lover to be 
banished for a time from our presence. He finds afterwards the means 
to appease us; to accustom us, by insensible degrees, to the rehearsal 
of his passion, and to obtain from us that confession which causes us so 
much pain. Then follow adventures: rivals who thwart our mutual 
inclination, persecution of fathers, jealousy based upon false appear- 
ances, reproaches, despair, elopement, and its consequences. It is thus 
things are carried on in high society, and in a well-regulated love-affair 
these rules cannot be dispensed with. But to plunge headlong into a 
proposal of marriage, to make love and the marriage settlements go hand 
in hand, is to begin the romance at the wrong end. Once more, father, 

* Characters in the romances of Mademoiselle de Scudery, "Artemene" and "Clelie." 



138 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

there is nothing more shopkeeper-like than such proceedings, and the 
bare mention of it makes me feel ill. 

Gor. What the devil is the meaning of all this jargon? Is it what 
you call, "elevated style?" 

Cat. Indeed, uncle, my cousin states the case with all veracity. 
How can one be expected to receive with gratification persons whose 
addresses are altogether an impropriety? I feel certain that they have 
never seen the map* of the Country of Tenderness, and that Billets-doux, 
Trifling attentions, Flattering letters, and Sprightly verses are regions un- 
known to them. Was it not plainly marked in all their person? Are you 
not conscious that their external appearance was in no way calculated 
to give a good opinion of them at first sight? To come on a love-visit 
with a leg lacking adornment, a hat destitute of feathers, a head un- 
artistic as to its hair, and a coat that suffers from an indigence of rib- 
bons! Heavens! what lovers! What frugality of dress! What barren- 
ness of conversation! It is not to be endured. I also noticed that their 
bands were not made by the fashionable milliner, and that their breeches 
were at least six inches too narrow. 

Gor. I believe they are both crazed; not a word can I understand 
of all this gibberish — Cathos, and you, Madelon .... 

Mad. Pray, father, give up those strange names, and call us otherwise. 

Gor. Strange names! what do you mean? are they not those which 
were given you at your baptism? 

Mad. Ah me! how vulgar you are! My constant wonder is that you 
could ever have such a soul of wit as I for a daughter. Did ever any- 
body in refined language speak of " Cathos" and " Madelon," and must 
you not admit that a name such as either of these, would be quite suffi- 
cient to ruin the finest romance in the world? 

Cat. It is but too true, uncle, that it painfully shocks a delicate ear 
to hear those names pronounced; and the name of Polixene which my 
cousin has chosen, f and that of Aminte which I have taken for myself, 
have a charm which you cannot deny. 

Gor. Listen to me; one word is as good as a hundred. I won't have 
you adopt any other name than those given to you by your godfathers 
and godmothers; and as for the gentlemen in question, I know their 
families and their fortune, and I have made up my mind that you shall 
take them for husbands. I am tired of having you upon my hands; it 
is too much for a man of my age to have to look after two young girls. 

Cat. Well, uncle, all I can say is that I think marriage is altogether 
a very shocking thing. How can one endure the thought of lying by 
the side of a man really unclothed. 

Mad. Let us enjoy for a time the beau monde of Paris, where we are 
only just arrived. Let us leisurely weave our own romance, and do not, 
we beg, hasten so much its conclusion. 

Gor. {aside). They are far gone, there is no doubt about it. {aloud) 
Once more, understand me, get rid of all this nonsense, for I mean to 
have my own way; to cut matters' short, either you will both be married 
before long or, upon my word, you shall both be shut up in a nunnery. 
I'll take my oath of it. {Exit.) 

* "Carte du tendre" published in the first part of "Clelie." 
t All the "Precieuses" had borrowed names. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 139 

Scene VI. — Cathos, Madelon 

Cat. Ah! my dear, how deeply immersed in matter your father is, 
how dull is his understanding, and what darkness overcasts his soul. 

Mad. What can I say, my dear? I am thoroughly ashamed for him. 
I can scarcely persuade myself that I am really his daughter, and I feel 
sure that at some future time it will be discovered that I am of a more 
illustrious descent. 

Cat. I fully believe it; yes, it is exceedingly probable. And when 
I too consider myself .... {Enter Marotte.) 

Scene VII. — Cathos, Madelon, Marotte 

Mar. There is a footman below, inquiring if you are at home; he 
says that his master wants to see you. 

Mad. Learn, imbecile, to express yourself with less vulgarity. Say: 
Here is an indispensable, who is inquiring if it is convenient for you to be 
visible. 

Mar. Why! I don't understand Latin, and I hav'n't learned filsofy 
out of the "Grand Cyrus," as you have done. 

Mad. The wretched creature! what a trial it is to bear with it! And 
who is this footman's master? 

Mar. He told me it was the Marquis of Mascarille. 

Mad. Ah ! my dear, a marquis ! Go by all means, and say that we 
are visfible. No doubt it is some wit who has heard us spoken of. 

Cat. It must be so, my dear. 

Mad. We must receive him in this parlour rather than in our own 
room. Let us at least arrange our hair a little and keep up our reputation. 
Quick, come along and hold before us, in here, the counsellor of the graces. 

Mar. Goodness! I don't know what kind of an animal that is; you 
must speak like a Christian if you wish me to understand you. 

Cat. Bring us the looking-glass, ignorant girl that you are, and mind 
you do not defile its brightness by the communication of your image. 

{Exeunt.) 
Scene VIII. — Mascarille and two Chairmen 

Masc. Stop, chairmen, stop! Gently, gently, be careful I say! One 
would think these rascals intend to break me to pieces against the walls 
and pavement. 

ist Ch. Well! you see, master, the door is narrow, and you wished 
us to bring you right in. 

Masc. I should think so! Would you have me, jackanapes, risk 
the condition of my feathers to the inclemencies of the rainy season, and 
that I should give to the mud the impression of my shoes? Be off, take 
your chair away. 

2nd Ch. Pay us, then, sir, if you please. 

Masc. Ha ! what's that you say? 

2ND Ch. I say, sir, that we want our money, if you please. 

Masc. {giving him a box on the ear) . How, scoundrel, you ask money 
of a person of my rank! 

2ND Ch. Are poor people to be paid in this fashion? and does youi 
rank get us a dinner? 



140 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Masc. Ha ! I will teach you to know your right place ! Do you dare, 
you scoundrels, to set me at defiance? 

ist Ch. {taking up one of the poles of the chair). Pay us at once; 
that's what I say. 

Masc. What? 

ist Ch. I must have the money this minute. 

Masc. Now this is a sensible fellow. 

ist Ch. Quick then. 

Masc. Ay, you speak as you should do; but as for that other fellow, 
he doesn't know what he says. Here, are you satisfied? 

ist Ch. No, you struck my companion, and I . . . . {holding 
up his pole). 

Masc. Gently, here's something for the blow. People can get every- 
thing out of me when they set about it in the right way; now go, but mind 
you come and fetch me by and by, to carry me to the Louvre for the 
petit coucher* 

Scene IX. — Marotte, Mascarille 

Mar. Sir, my mistresses will be here directly. 

Masc. Tell them not to hurry themselves; I am comfortably estab- 
lished here for waiting. 
Mar. Here they are. 

\ 

Scene X. — Madelon, Cathos, Mascarille, Almanzor 

Masc. {after having bowed to them). Ladies, you will be surprised, 
no doubt, at the boldness of my visit, but your reputation brings this 
troublesome incident upon you; merit has for me such powerful at- 
tractions, that I run after it wherever it is to be found. 

Mad. If you pursue merit, it is not in our grounds that you should 
hunt after it. 

Cat. If you find merit among us, you must have brought it here 
yourself. 

Masc. I refuse assent to such an assertion. Fame tells the truth 
in speaking of your worth; and you will pique, repique, and capot f 
all the fashionable world of Paris. 

Mad. Your courtesy carries you somewhat too far in the liberality 
of your praises, and we must take care, my cousin and I, not to trust too 
much to the sweetness of your flattery. 

Cat. My dear, we should call for chairs. 

Mad. Almanzor! 

Alm. Madam. 

Mad. Quick! convey us hither at once the appliances of conversation. 

(Almanzor brings chairs.) 

Masc. But stay, is there any security for me here? 

Cat. What can you fear? 

* Interval between the time when the king bade good night to the courtiers in general, 
and the time he really went to bed. 

t Terms from the game of piquet. The sense is: you will carry everything before you. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 141 

Masc. Some robbery of my heart, some assassination of my free- 
dom. I see before me two eyes which seem to me to be very dangerous 
fellows; they abuse liberty and give no quarter. The deuce! no sooner 
is any one near, but they are up in arms, and ready for their murderous 
attack! Ah! upon my word I mistrust them! I shall either run away 
or require good security that they will do me no harm. 

Mad. What playfulness, my dear. 

Cat. Yes, I see he is an Amilcar.* 

Mad. Do not fear; our eyes have no evil intentions, your heart may 
sleep in peace and may rest assured of their innocence. 

Cat. But, for pity's sake, sir, do not be inexorable to that arm-chair 
which for the last quarter of an hour has stretched out its arms to you; 
satisfy the desire it has of embracing you. 

Masc. {after having combed himself and adjusted his cantons) . Well, 
ladies, what is your opinion of Paris? 

Mad. Alas! can there be two opinions? It would be the antipodes 
of reason not to confess that Paris is the great museum of wonders, the 
centre of good taste, of wit and gallantry. 

Masc. I think for my part that out of Paris people of position cannot 
exist. 

Cat. That is a never-to-be-disputed truth. 

Masc. It is somewhat muddy, but then we have sedan-chairs. 

Mad. Yes, a chair is a wonderful safeguard against the insults of 
mud and bad weather. 

Masc. You must have many visitors? What great wit belongs to 
your circle? 

Mad. Alas! we are not known yet; but we have every hope of being 
so before long, and a great friend of ours has promised to bring us all 
the gentlemen who have written in the Elegant Extracts. 

Cat. As well as some others who, we are told, are the sovereign judges 
in matters of taste. 

Masc. Leave that to me ! I can manage that for you better than any 
one else. They all visit me, and I can truly say that I never get up in 
the morning without having half a dozen wits about me. 

Mad. Ah! we should feel under the greatest obligation to you if you 
would be so kind as to do this for us: for it is certain one must be ac- 
quainted with all those gentlemen in order to belong to society. By them 
reputations are made in Paris, and you know that it is quite sufficient to 
be seen with some of them to acquire the reputation of a connoisseur, 
even though there should be no other foundation for the distinction. 
But, for my part, what I value most is, that in such society we learn a 
hundred things which it is one's duty to know and which are the quin- 
tessence of wit: the scandal of the day; the latest things out in prose or 
verse. We hear exactly and punctually that a Mr. A. has composed the 
most beautiful piece in the world on such and such a subject; that Mrs. 
B. has adapted words to such and such an air, that Mr. C. has composed 
a madrigal on the fidelity of his lady-love, and Mr. D. upon the faith- 
lessness of his; that yesterday evening Mr. E. wrote a sixain f to Miss F., 

* Character in the romance of "Clelie." 

t A stanza is called quatrain if it has four lines, sixain if it has six, huitain if it has 
eight, and so on. 



142 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

to which she sent an answer this morning at eight o'clock; that Mr. G. 
has such and such a project in his head, that Mr. H. is occupied with 
the third volume of his romance, and that Mr. J. has his work in the 
press. By knowledge like this we acquire consideration in every society; 
whereas if we are left in ignorance of such matters all the wit we may 
possess is a thing of nought and as dust in the balance. 

Cat. Indeed I think it is carrying the ridiculous to the extreme, for 
any one who makes the least pretence to wit, not to know even the last 
little quatrain that has been written. For my part I should feel greatly 
ashamed if some one were by chance to ask me if I had seen some new 
thing, which I had not seen. 

Masc. It is true that it is disgraceful not to be one of the very first 
to know what is going on. But do not make yourself anxious about it; 
I will establish an Academy of wits in your house, and I promise you 
that not a single line shall be written in all Paris which you shall not know 
by heart before anybody else. I, your humble servant, indulge a little 
in writing poetry when I feel in the vein ; and you will find handed about 
in all the most fashionable ruelles* of Paris, two hundred songs, as many 
sonnets, four hundred epigrams, and more than a thousand madrigals, 
without reckoning enigmas and portraits. 

Mad. I must acknowledge that I am madly fond of portraits; there 
is nothing more elegant according to my opinion. 

Masc. Portraits are difficult, and require a deep insight into char- 
acter: | but you shall see some of mine which will please you. 

Cat. I must say that for my part I am appallingly fond of enigmas. 

Masc. They form a good occupation for the mind, and I have al- 
ready written four this morning, which I will give you to guess. 

Mad. Madrigals are charming when they are neatly turned. 

Masc. I have a special gift that way, and I am engaged in turning 
the whole Roman History into madrigals. 

Mad. Ah! that will be exquisite. Pray let me have a copy, if you 
publish it. 

Masc. I promise you each a copy beautifully bound. It is beneath 
my rank to occupy myself in that fashion, but I do it for the benefit of 
the publishers, who leave me no peace. 

Mad. I should think that it must be a most pleasant thing to see 
one's name in print. 

Masc. Undoubtedly. By the bye, let me repeat to you some ex- 
tempore verses I made yesterday at the house of a friend of mine, a 
duchess, whom I went to see. You must know that I'm a wonderful 
hand at impromptus. 

Cat. An impromptu is the touchstone of genius. 

Masc. Listen. 

Mad. We are all ears. 

* "Ruelles" The only equivalent in our days would be drawing-rooms. It has some- 
what the sense of "conversazione" Ladies used to receive their visitors sitting, or lying 
dressed on a bed richly adorned. The small space between the bed and the wall was 
reserved for their intimate friends or acquaintances, and called "ruelle." Later on they 
gave up the bed, but still received at times in the bedroom, which retained the name of 
"ruelle" 

t "Les Caractdres de La Bruydre" contains many portraits. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 143 

Masc. Oh! oh 1 1 was not taking care. 

While thinking not of harm, I watch my fair. 
Your lurking eye my heart doth steal away. 
Stop thief ! Stop thief ! Stop thief ! I say. 

Cat. Ah me! It is gallant to the last degree. 

Masc. Yes, all I do has a certain easy air about it. There is a total 
absence of the pedant about all my writings. 

Mad. They are thousands and thousands of miles from that. 

Masc. Did you notice the beginning? Oh ! oh ! There is something 
exceptional in that oh ! oh ! like a man who bethinks himself all of a sud- 
den — Oh ! oh I Surprise is well depicted, is it not? Oh ! oh ! 

Mad. Yes, I think that oh ! oh ! admirable. 

Masc. At first sight it does not seem much. 

Cat. Ah ! what do you say? these things cannot be too highly valued. 

Mad. Certainly, and I would rather have composed that oh I oh ! than 
an epic poem. 

Masc. Upon my word now, you have good taste. 

Mad. Why, yes, perhaps it's not altogether bad. 

Masc. But do you not admire also, / was not taking care ? I was not 
taking care: I did not notice it, quite a natural way of speaking you know: 
/ was not taking care. While thinking not of harm: whilst innocently, 
without forethought, like a poor sheep, / watch my fair: that is to say, 
I amuse myself by considering, observing, contemplating you. Your 
lurking eye, — what do you think of this word lurking ? Do you not think 
it well chosen? 

Cat. Perfectly well. 

Masc. • Lurking, hiding: you would say, a cat just going to catch a 
mouse: lurking. 

Mad. Nothing could be better. 

Masc. My heart doth steal away: snatch it away, carries it off from me. 
Stop thief! stop thief ! stop thief ! Would you not imagine it to be a man 
shouting and running after a robber? Stop thief ! stop thief ! stop thief ! 

Mad. It must be acknowledged that it is witty and gallant. 

Masc. I must sing you the tune I made to it. 

Cat. Ah! you have learnt music? 

Masc. Not a bit of it! 

Cat. Then how can you have set it to music? 

Masc. People of my position know everything without ever having 
learnt. 

Mad. Of course it is so, my dear. 

Masc. Just listen, and see if the tune is to your taste; hem, hem, 
la, la, la, la, la. The brutality of the season has greatly injured the deli- 
cacy of my voice; but it is of no consequence; permit me, without cere- 
mony: (he sings) 

Oh ! oh ! I was not taking care. 
While thinking not of harm, I watch my fair. 
Your lurking eye my heart doth steal away. 
Stop thief ! stop thief ! stop thief ! I say. 

Cat. What soul-subduing music! One would willingly die while 
listening. 



144 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Mad. What soft languor creeps over one's heart! 

Masc. Do you not find the thought clearly expressed in the song? 
Stop thief! stop thief. And then as if one suddenly cried out stop, stop, 
stop, stop, stop thief. Then all at once, like a person out of breath — stop 
thief! 

Mad. It shows a knowledge of perfect beauty, every part is inimitable, 
both the words and the air enchant me. 

Cat. I never yet met with anything worthy of being compared 
to it. 

Masc. All I do comes naturally to me. I do it without study. 

Mad. Nature has treated you like a fond mother; you are her spoiled 
child. 

Masc. How do you spend your time, ladies? 

Cat. Oh! in doing nothing at all. 

Mad. Until now, we have been in a dreadful dearth of amusements. 

Masc. I should be happy to take you to the play one of these days, 
if you would permit me; the more so as there is a new piece going to be 
acted which I should be glad to see in your company. 

Mad. There is no refusing such an offer. 

Masc. But I must beg of you to applaud it well when we are there, 
for I have promised my help to praise up the piece; and the author came 
to me again this morning to beg my assistance. It is the custom for 
authors to come and read their new plays to us people of rank, so that 
they may persuade us to approve their work, and to give them a reputa- 
tion. I leave you to imagine, if, when we say anything, the pit dare 
contradict us. As for me, I am most scrupulous, and when once I have 
promised my assistance to a poet I always call out "splendid! beautiful! ,, 
even before the candles are lighted. 

Mad. Do not speak of it; Paris is a most wonderful place; a hundred 
things happen every day there of which country-people, however clever 
they may be, have no idea. 

Cat. It is sufficient; now we understand this, we shall consider our- 
selves under the obligation of praising all that is said. 

Masc. I do not know whether I am mistaken; but you seem to me 
to have written some play yourselves. 

Mad. Ah ! there may be some truth in what you say. 

Masc. Upon my word, we must see it. Between ourselves I have 
composed one which I intend shortly to bring out. 

Cat. Indeed; and to what actors do you mean to give it? 

Masc. What a question! Why, to the actors of the Hotel de Bour- 
gogne of course; they alone can give a proper value to a piece. The others 
are a pack of ignoramuses, who recite their parts just as one speaks every 
day of one's life; they have no idea of thundering out verses, or of paus- 
ing at a fine passage. How can one make out where the fine lines are 
if the actor does not stop at them, and thus tell you when you are to 
applaud? 

Cat. Certainly, there is always a way of making an audience feel 
the beauties of a play; and things are valued according to the way they 
are put before you. 

Masc. How do you like my lace, feathers, and et ceteras? Do you 
find any incongruity between them and my coat? 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 145 

Cat. Not the slightest. 

Masc. The ribbon is well-chosen, you think? 

Mad. Astonishingly well. It is real Perdrigeon.* 

Masc. What do you say of my canions? 

Mad. They look very fashionable. 

Masc. I can at least boast that they are a whole quarter of a yard 
wider than, those usually worn. 

Mad. I must acknowledge that I have never yet seen the elegance 
of the adjustment carried to such perfection. 

Masc. May I beg of you to direct your olfactory senses to these 
gloves? 

Mad. They smell terribly sweet. 

Cat. I never inhaled a better made perfume. 

Masc. And this? {He bends forward for them to smell his powdered 
wig.) 

Mad. It has the true aristocratic odour. One's finest senses are 
exquisitely affected by it. 

Masc. You say nothing of my plumes! What do you think of them? 

Cat. Astonishingly beautiful! 

Masc. Do you know that every tip cost me a louis d'or? It is my way 
to prefer indiscriminately everything of the best. 

Mad. I assure you that I greatly sympathise with you. I am fu- 
riouslyf delicate about everything I wear, and even my socksf must 
come from the best hands. 

Masc. {crying out suddenly). O! O! O! gently, gently ladies; ladies, 
this is unkind, I have good reason to complain of your behaviour; it is 
not fair. 

Cat. What is it? What is the matter? 

Masc. Matter? What, both of you against my heart, and at the 
same time too! attacking me right and left! ah! it is contrary to fair 
play; I shall cry out murder. 

Cat. {to Madelon). It must be acknowledged that he says things 
in a manner altogether his own. 

Mad. His way of putting things is exquisitely admirable. 

Cat. {to Mascarille). You are more afraid than hurt, and your 
heart cries out before it is touched. 

Masc. The deuce! why it is sore from head to foot. 

Scene XL — Cathos, Madelon, Mascarille, Marotte 

Mar. Madam, somebody wants to see you. 

Mad. Who is it? 

Mar. The Viscount de Jodelet. 

Masc. The Viscount de Jodelet! 

Mar. Yes, sir. 

Cat. Do you know him? 

Masc. He is my very best friend. 

* A famous draper. 

t He is furiously gentle; I love you horribly; It is greatly small; Be is terribly happy, etc., 
etc., expressions very dear to the "Precieuse." 

X Chaussettes: linen socks worn underneath the ordinary stockings of cloth or silk. 



146 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Mad. Make him come in at once. 

Masc. It is now some time since we saw each other, and I am de- 
lighted at this accidental meeting. 
Cat. Here he is. 

Scene XII. — Cathos, Madelon, Jodelet, Mascarille, Marotte, 
Almanzqr 

Masc. Ah! Viscount! 

Jod. Ah! Marquis! (They embrace each other.) 

Masc. How pleased I am to see you! 

Jod. How delighted I am to meet you here! 

Masc. Ah! embrace me again, I pray you. 

Mad. (to Cathos). We are on the road to be known, my dear; people 
of fashion are beginning to find the way to our house. 

Masc. Ladies, allow me to introduce you to this gentleman; upon 
my word of honor, he is worthy of your acquaintance. 

Jod. It is but right we should come and pay you the respect that 
we owe you; and your queenly charms demand the humble homage of all. 

Mad. This is carrying your civilities to the extreme bounds of flattery. 

Cat. We shall have to mark this day in our diary as a very happy one. 

Mad. (to Almanzor). Come, thoughtless juvenal, must you ever- 
lastingly be told the same things. Do you not see that the addition of 
another arm-chair is necessary? 

Masc. Do not wonder if you see the Viscount thus; he has just 
recovered from an illness which has left him pale as you see him. 

Jod. It is the result of constant attendance at court, and of the 
fatigues of war. 

Masc. Do you know, ladies, that you behold in Viscount Jodelet one 
of the bravest men of the age — a perfect hero. 

Jod. You are not behind in this respect, marquis, and we know what 
you can do. 

Masc. It is true that we have seen each other in the field. 

Jod. And in places too where it was warm indeed. 

Masc. (looking at Cathos and Madelon). Ay, ay, but not so warm 
as it is here! Ha, ha, ha! 

Jod. Our acquaintance began in the army; the first time we met he 
commanded a regiment of horse on board the galleys of Malta. 

Masc. It is true; but you were in the service before me, and I re- 
member that I was but a subaltern when you commanded two thousand 
horse. 

Jod. War is a grand thing. But s'death! now-a-days the court re- 
wards very badly men of merit like us. 

Masc. Yes, yes, there's no doubt about it; and I intend to let my 
sword rest in its scabbard. 

Cat. For my part I am unutterably fond of men of the army. 

Mad. And so am I, but I like to see wit season bravery. 

Masc. Do you remember, Viscount, our carrying that half-moon 
at Arras? 

Jod. What do you mean by "half-moon,"* it was a complete full one. 

* Half-moon is a military term. It is scarcely necessary to say that there is no "full- 
moon" in fortification. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 147 

Masc. Yes, I believe you are right. 

Jod. I ought to remember it, I was wounded then in the leg by a 
hand-grenade, and I still bear the scars. Just feel here, I pray: you can 
realize what a wound it was. 

Cat. {after having felt the place). It is true that the scar is very 
large. 

Masc. Give me } r our hand, and feel this one, just here at the back 
of my head! Have you found it? 

Mad. Yes, I feel something. 

Masc. It is a musket-shot I received the last campaign I made. 

Jod. {uncovering his breast.) Here is another wound which went 
quite through me at the battle of Gravelines. 

Masc. {about to unbutton.) And I will show you a terrible scar 
which . . . 

Mad. Pray do not, we believe you without seeing. 

Masc. They are honourable marks, which tell the stuff a man is 
made of. 

Cat. We have no doubt whatever of your valour. 

Masc. Viscount, is your carriage waiting? 

Jod. Why? 

Masc. Because we would have taken these ladies for a drive, and 
have given them a collation. 

Mad. Thank you, but we could not have gone out to-day. 

Masc. Very well, then, let us send for musicians and have a dance. 

Jod. A happy thought upon my word. 

Mad. We can consent to that: but we must make some addition 
to our company. 

Masc. Hallo there! Champagne, Picard, Bourguignon, Cascaret, 
Basque, La Verdure, Lorrain, Provencal, La Violette! Deuce take all 
the lackeys! I don't believe there is a man in all France worse served 
than I am. The villains are always out of the way when they are wanted. 

Mad. Almanzor, tell the servants of the Marquis to go and fetch some 
musicians, and then ask those gentlemen and ladies who live close by 
to come and people the solitude of our ball. {Exit Almanzor.) 

Masc. Viscount, what do you say of those eyes? 

Jod. And you, marquis, what do you think of them yourself. 

Masc. I? I say that our liberty will have some trouble in coming 
off scathless. At least as far as I am concerned, I feel an unaccustomed 
agitation, and my heart hangs as by a single thread. 

Mad. How natural is all that he says! He gives to everything a 
most pleasing turn. 

Cat. His expenditure of wit is really tremendous. 

Masc. To show you the truth of what I say, I will make some ex- 
tempore verses upon the state of my feelings. 

Cat. Oh! I beseech you by all the devotion of my heart to let us 
hear something made expressly for us. 

Jod. I should delight to do as much, but the quantity of blood I 
have lately lost has rather weakened my poetic vein. 

Masc. Deuce take it all! I can always make the first verse to my 
satisfaction, but feel perplexed about the rest. After all, you know, this 
is being a little too much in a hurry. I will take my own time to make 



148 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

you some extempore verses, which you will find the most beautiful in 
the world. 

Jod. {to Madelon). His wit is devilish fine! 

Mad. Gallant, and neatly turned. 

Masc. Viscount, tell me, have you seen the countess lately? 

Jod. It is about three weeks since I paid her a visit. 

Masc. Do you know that the duke came to see me this morning, and 
wanted to take me out into the country to hunt a stag with him? 

Mad. Here come our friends. 

Scene XIII. — Lucile, Celimene, Cathos, Madelon, Mascarille, 

JODELET, MAROTTE, ALMANZOR, MUSICIANS 

Mad. My dears, we beg you will excuse us. These gentlemen had 
a fancy for the soul of motion,* and we sent for you to fill up the void 
of our assembly. 

Luc. You are very kind. 

Masc. This is only a ball got up in haste, but one of these days we 
will have one in due form. Have the musicians come? 

Alm. Yes, sir, here they are. 

Cat. Come then, my dears, take your places. 

Masc. {dancing alone by way of prelude). La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. 

Mad. He has a most elegant figure. 

Cat. And seems a proper dancer. 

Masc. {taking out Madelon to dance). The liberty of my heart will 
dance a couranto as well as my feet. Play in time, musicians. O! what 
ignorant fellows! There is no possibility of dancing with them. Devil 
take you, can't you play in time? La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Steady, 
you village scrapers. 

Jod. {dancing in his turn). Gently, don't play so fast, I have only 
just recovered from an illness. 

{Enter Du Croisy and La Grange.) 

Scene XIV. — Du Croisy, La Grange, Cathos, Madelon, Lucile, 
Celimene, Jodelet, Mascarille, Marotte, Musicians 

La Gra. {a stick in his hand). Ah! scoundrels, what are you doing 
here? We have been looking for you these three hours. 

{He beats Mascarille and Jodelet.) 
Masc. Oh ! oh ! oh ! You never said anything about blows. 
Jod. Oh! oh! oh! 

La Gra. It becomes you well, you rascal, to ape the man of rank. 
Du Cro. This will teach you to know your position. 

{Exeunt Du Croisy and La Grange.) 

Scene XV. — Cathos, Madelon, Lucile, Celimene, Mascarille, 
Jodelet, Marotte, Musicians 

Mad. What does this all mean? 

Jod. It is a wager. 

Cat. What! to sutler yourselves to be beaten in that fashion! 

* Violins are meant. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 149 

Masc. Yes, I would not take any notice of it, I have a violent temper, 
and I should not have been able to command it. 

Mad. Such an insult in our presence ! 

Masc. Not worth mentioning, we have known each other for a 
long while now; and among friends we must not take offence at such 
trifles. {Re-enter Du Croisy and La Grange.) 

Scene XVI. — Du Croisy, La Grange, Madelon, Cathos, Celimene, 
Lucile, Mascarille, Jodelet, Marotte, Musicians 

La Gra. Ah! you rascals, you shall not laugh at us, I assure you. 
Come in, you there. (Three or four men enter.) 

Mad. What do you mean by coming to disturb us in our own house? 

Du Cro. What ladies! shall we suffer our servants to be better re- 
ceived than we were? shall we allow them to come and make love to you 
at our expense, and to give you a ball? 

Mad. Your servants! 

La Gra. Yes, our servants; and it is neither proper nor honest in 
you to entice them away from their duty as you have done. 

Mad. Heavens ! What insolence ! 

La Gra. But they shall not have the advantage of wearing our 
clothes to dazzle }^our eyes, and if you wish to love them, it shall be 
for their good looks. Quick, you fellows, strip them at once. 

Jod. Farewell our finery. 

Masc. Farewell, marquisate; farewell, viscountship ! 

Du Cro. Ah! ah! rascals, have you the impudence to wish to cut us 
out? You will have to find elsewhere, I can tell you, wherewith to make 
yourselves agreeable to your lady-loves. 

La Gra. To supplant us; and that, too, in our own clothes. It is 
too much! 

Masc. O Fortune, how inconstant thou art! 

Du Cro. Quick, I say, strip off everything that belongs to us. 

La Gra. Take away all the clothes; quick! Now, ladies, in their 
present condition, you may make love to them as much as you please. 
We leave you entirely free to act. This gentleman and I assure you that 
we shall be in no way jealous. 

Scene XVII. — Madelon, Cathos, Jodelet, Mascarille, Musicians 

Cat. Ah! what humiliation. 
Mad. I am nearly dying with vexation. 

ist Mus. {to Mascarille). And what does all this mean? Who 
is to pay us? 

Masc. Ask my lord the Viscount. 

2nd Mus. (to Jodelet). Who is to give us our money? 

Jod. Ask my lord the Marquis. (Enter Gorgibus.) 

Scene XVIII. — Gorgibus, Madelon, Cathos; Jodelet, Mascarille; 

Musicians 

Gor. (to Madelon and Cathos). From all I hear and see you have 
got us into a nice mess; the gentlemen and ladies who have just left have 
given me a fine account of your doings ! 



ISO THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Mad. Ah! my father, it is a most cruel trick they have played us. 

Gor. Yes, it is a cruel trick, no doubt, but one which results from 
your folly — miserable simpletons that you are. They felt insulted by 
your way of receiving them; and I, wretched man, must swallow the 
affront as best I may. 

Mad. Ah ! I will be revenged or die in the attempt. And you, wretches ! 
dare you stop here after all your insolence? 

Masc. To treat a marquis in this manner! Yes, that's the way of 
the world; we are spurned by those who till lately cherished us. Come 
along, come along, my friend, let us go and seek our fortunes elsewhere, 
I see that nothing but outward show pleases here, and that they have 
no consideration for virtue unadorned. 

(Exeunt Mascarille and Jodelet.) 

Scene XIX. — Gorgibus, Madelon, Cathos, Musicians 

ist Mus. Sir, we shall expect you to pay us, since they do not; for 
it was here we played. 

Gor. (beating them). Yes, yes, I will pay you, and here is the coin 
you shall receive. As for you, stupid, foolish girls, I don't know what 
keeps me from giving you as much. We shall become the laughing-stock 
of the whole neighbourhood; this is the result of all your ridiculous 
nonsense. Go, hide yourselves, idiots; hide yourselves for ever (exeunt 
Madelon and Cathos); and you the cause of all their folly, worthless 
trash, mischievous pastimes of vacant minds, romances, verses, songs, 
sonnets, lays and lies, may the devil take you all! 

As must have been surmised, the prevailing tone of all the 
literary production of the early part of the seventeenth 
century was romantic, often to the verge of sentimentality, 
the result of reaction from the turbulence of the preceding 
century united with a leaning toward Italian models made 
fashionable by Marie de Medici. Its every form, however, 
was marked by an accuracy of workmanship which was to 
show itself increasingly as the decades went on, until verse, 
drama and oratory all displayed a finish appropriate to the 
model set them by the punctilious court of Louis XIV. Even 
a poet as irregular as versatile, long-nosed Cyrano de Ber- 
gerac (1619-1655) — revealed to us in the edge of the 
twentieth century — was capable of feats of verse-making 
dexterity as wonderful as that described by Rostand who 
makes his hero compose a ballade, accurate in form, at the 
same time that he fought a duel. De Bergerac stands alone 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 151 

among literary men as a defender of Mazarin. His fancy was 
delightful and his prose clear and correct. Here is his ac- 
count of an 

EXPERIENCE IN AERONAUTICS 

I had fastened about me a number of phials rilled with dew on which 
the Sun shone so warmly that its heat which attracted them as it does 
the largest clouds, raised me so high, that at last I found myself above 
the medium region. But as this attraction caused me to rise with too 
great speed, and as, instead of nearing the Moon as I expected, she seemed 
to me farther away than at my departure, I broke several of my phials 
until I thought that my weight overcame the attraction and that I was 
descending again towards the earth. My opinion was correct, for I fell 
upon it a short time afterwards, and judging by the time when I left, 
it must have been midnight. However, I saw that the Sun was at its 
highest point above the horizon and that it was noon. I leave you to 
imagine my surprise. I was so thoroughly amazed that, not knowing 
to what to attribute this miracle, I had the insolence to imagine that to 
favor my boldness God had once more fastened the Sun in the heavens 
that it might shed light upon so generous an enterprise. What increased 
my surprise was that I did not recognize the place where I was, for it 
seemed to me that having gone straight up I ought to have alighted on 
the same spot from which I had set out. However, equipped as I was, 
I walked toward a sort of hut whose smoke I saw and I was hardly a pistol 
shot from it when I saw myself surrounded by a crowd of naked men. 
They seemed greatly surprised at seeing me, for I suppose I was the 
first man they ever had seen dressed in bottles. And still further to 
overset whatever interpretations they might have put upon this equip- 
ment, they saw that I scarcely touched the ground as I walked. They 
did not know that at the smallest movement of my body the warmth of 
the noonday rays lifted me with my dew, and that, had it not been that 
my phials were no longer numerous I might have been raised in the air 
before their very eyes. I wanted to approach them, but as if fright had 
changed them into birds they were lost in an instant in the neighboring 
forest. However I caught one whose legs had played the traitor to his 
courage. I asked him with some difficulty (for I was almost choked) 
how far it was to Paris and since when people had been going about 
France naked and why they fled from me with such terror. The man 
I addressed was an olive-skinned old fellow who at first flung himself 
at my knees and clasping his hands in the air behind his head opened 



152 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

his mouth and closed his eyes. He muttered for a long time between his 
teeth but I did not discern any articulation, so that I considered his 
speech as the hoarse chattering of a mute. 

A little while later I saw a company of soldiers come up, their drum 
beating, and I noticed two separating themselves from the main body 
to investigate me. When they were near enough to hear I asked them 
where I was. "You are in France," they answered me, "but what the 
mischief has put you in such a state as this? And how does it happen 
that we do not recognize you? Have the vessels come? Are you going 
to report to the Governor? And why have you put your brandy into 
so many bottles? " To all that I replied that there wasn't any mischief 
about it; that they did not recognize me because they could not know 
everybody; that I did not know that the Seine floated large ships as far 
as Paris; that I had no report to make to Marshall de Y Hopital; and that 
I was not loaded with brandy. "Ho, ho," they said, taking me by the 
arm, "you're playing the jester, are you? The Governor shall make 
your acquaintance." They led me toward the troop where I learned 
that I really was in France, but in New France, and a little while later 
I was presented to the Viceroy, who asked me my country, my name and 
my rank; and after I had satisfied him, telling him the pleasant outcome 
of my trip, whether he really believed me or pretended to, he was kind 
enough to give me a room in his apartment. My happiness was great 
at meeting a man capable of breadth of view, who was not surprised 
when I told him that it must have been that the earth had rotated dur- 
ing my ascent, since, having begun to rise when two leagues from Paris, 
I had fallen, in an almost perpendicular line, into Canada. 

In addition to De Bergerac there were few poets worthy of 
mention in the early years except Malherbe and his contem- 
poraries who bridged the century. The literary atmosphere 
of the Hotel de Rambouillet, however, encouraged many 
poets who stand out even from the multitude of verse-makers 
who expressed much high-flown sentiment in "precious" 
language. A new sonnet was an affair of importance at the 
salon, and when two of almost equal merit appeared it was 
the occasion of much factional excitement. Such was the 
case when Vincent Voiture (i 598-1648) wrote his sonnet 
to "Uranie" and Isaac de Benserade (1613-1691) his 
" Job." Here they are for comparison. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 153 

URANIE 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

It rests, to end with love of Uranie, 

Absence nor time may cure me of this pain; 

Nothing to help, nothing to ease, I see, 
Nothing to win my liberty again. 

Long time I know her rigor, but I think 

Still on her beauty — wherefore I must die — , 

Content I fall, blessing my doom I sink, 
Nor aught against her tyrant rigor cry, 

But sometimes Reason feebly lifts her voice, ^ 

Bids me throw off this thraldom, and rejoice; 

Then when I listen, and her aid would prove, 
After all efforts spent, in mere despair, 
She says that Uranie alone is fair, 

And, more than all my senses, bids me love. 

JOB 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

Job, with a thousand troubles cursed, 
Here shows you what his troubles were, 

And as he goes from worse to worst, 
Asks , for your sympathetic tear. 

Behold his story, simple, plain, 

Told by himself for your fair eyes; 
And steel your heart to watch the pain 

Of one who suffers, one who sighs. 

Yet think — although he suffered much, 
His troubles great, his patience such — 

That some may still more patient be; 
To all the listening world he groaned, 
His pains to every friend bemoaned; 

I, silent, suffer more than he. 

Voiture and Benserade counted among their fellows Jean 
Regnauld de Segrais (1624-1701), a man of many talents, 
less remembered now for his verse than for his memoirs 



1 54 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

which give a thoroughly conversant account of the society 
of the century, and for his work with Mademoiselle de Mont- 
pensier and Madame de la Fayette in the authorship of 
their romances. 

An unexpected figure among these elegants was Paul 
Scarron (1610-1660), poor and a cripple, who is known not 
only for his own work but as the husband of Frangoise 
d'Aubigne, later Madame de Maintenon and secretly married 
to Louis XIV. Scarron wrote a burlesque "iEneid" and a 
" Comic Romance," keen satires, and a collection of stories 
which served later as a treasure house of plots for later 
writers. His powers of observation were most acute, as will 
be seen in this compact description of 

PARIS 

(Translated by Walter Besant) 

Houses in labyrinthine maze; 

The streets with mud bespattered all; 
Palace and prison, churches, quays, 

Here stately shop, there shabby stall. 
Passengers black, red, gray and white, 
The pursed-up prude, the light coquette; 

Murder and Treason dark as night; 

With clerks, their hands with ink-stains wet; 
A gold-laced coat without a sou, 

And trembling at a bailiff's sight; 
1 A braggart shivering with fear; 

Pages and lacqueys, thieves of night; 
And 'mid the tumult, noise and stink of it, 

There's Paris — pray, what do you think of it? 

As the life of the seventeenth century grew more and more 
stately, its thought became correspondingly serious, and its 
expression increasingly perfect. "Preciosity" waned; love 
of the classic grew. The middle years were marked by a 
decided change. 

Boileau (Nicholas Boileau-Despreaux, 1 636-1 711) 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 155 

was a man whose many activities place him in many classes. 
In all he was great — as literary critic, philosopher, satirist, 
letter writer, and poet. His comments on his predecessors 
and contemporaries in the field of literature are always inter- 
esting, though apt to be more caustic than modern judgments. 
His verses addressed "To Moliere" are more about himself 
than about the great dramatist, but they give a concrete 
instance of the rules that he laid down in his discussion of the 
"Art of Poetry." 

TO MOLlliRE 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Unequaled genius, whose warm fancy knows 
No rhyming labor, no poetic throes; 
To whom Apollo has unlocked his store; 
Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore; 
Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me, 
And tell me, Moliere, how to rhyme like thee! 

You never falter when the close comes round, 

Or leave the substance to preserve the sound; 

You never wander after words that fly, 

For all the words you need before you lie. 

But I, who — smarting for my sins of late — 

With itch of rhyme am visited by fate, 

Expend on air my unavailing force, 

And, hunting sounds, am sweated like a horse. 

In vain I often muse from dawn till night : 

When I mean black, my stubborn verse says white; 

If I should paint a coxcomb's flippant mien, 

I scarcely can forbear to name the Dean; 

If asked to tell the strains that purest flow, 

My heart says Virgil, but my pen Quinault; 

In short, whatever I attempt to say, 

Mischance conducts me quite the other way. 

At times, fatigued and fretted with the pain, 
When every effort for relief is vain, 
The fruitless chase I peevishly give o'er, 
And swear a thousand times to write no more: 



156 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

But, after thousand vows, perhaps by chance, 
Before my careless eyes the couplets dance. 
Then with new force my flame bursts out again, 
Pleased I resume the paper and the pen; 
And, all my anger and my oaths forgot, 
I calmly muse and resolutely blot. 

Yet, if my eager hand, in haste to rhyme, 
Should tack an empty couplet at a time, 
Great names who do the same I might adduce; 
Nay, some who keep such hirelings for their use. 
Need blooming Phyllis be described in prose 
By any lover who has seen a rose ? 
Who can forget heaven's masterpiece, her eye, 
Where, within call, the Loves and Graces lie? 
Who can forget her smile, devoid of art, 
Her heavenly sweetness and her frozen heart? 
How easy thus forever to compound, 
And ring new changes on recurring sound; 
How easy, with a reasonable store 
Of useful epithets repeated o'er, 
Verb, substantive, and pronoun, to transpose, 
And into tinkling metre hitch dull prose. 
But I — who tremble o'er each word I use, 
And all that do not aid the sense refuse, 
Who cannot bear those phrases out of place 
Which rhymers stuff into a vacant space — 
Ponder my scrupulous verses o'er and o'er, 
And when I write five words, oft blot out four. 

Plague on the fool who taught us to confine 
The swelling thought within a measured line; 
Who first in narrow thraldom fancy pent, 
And chained in rhyme each pinioned sentiment. 
Without this toil, contentment's soothing balm 
Might lull my languid soul in listless calm: 
Like the smooth prebend how might I recline, 
And loiter life in mirth and song and wine! 
Roused by no labor, with no care opprest, 
Pass all my nights in sleep, my days in rest. 
My passions and desires obey the rein; 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 157 

No mad ambition fires my temperate vein; 
The schemes of busy greatness I decline, 
Nor kneel in palaces at Fortune's shrine. 
In short, my life had been supremely blest 
If envious rhyme had not disturbed my rest: 
But since this freakish fiend began to roll 
His idle vapors o'er my troubled soul, 
Since first I longed in polished verse to please, 
And wrote with labor to be read with ease, 
Nailed to my chair, day after day I pore 
On what I write and what I wrote before; 
Retouch each line, each epithet review, 
Or burn the paper and begin anew. 
While thus my labors lengthen into years, 
I envy all the race of sonneteers. 

To you, who know how justly I complain, 
To you I turn for medicine to my pain! 
Grant me your talent, and impart your store, 
Or teach me, Moliere, how to rhyme no more. 

Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695) ends the century's list 
of poets pure and simple with one of its greatest names. He 
led a somewhat irregular life, glancing toward the church 
and then glancing away, and not fulfilling in real work the 
promise of his early years until he was a man of middle age. 
His first poems are graceful but not remarkable. When 
Fouquet, who was Superintendent of Finances under Maz- 
arin, fell into disgrace with Louis XIV, La Fontaine wrote a 
long poem on the " Nymphs of Vaux," which launched him 
on the sea of poesy upon which he adventured many other 
poems of increasing merit. He is best known by his " Fables " 
in imitation of ^Esop. They are admirable from every point 
of view — as recalling their model, as satirizing society, as 
drawing lovely pictures of nature — and their universal human 
appeal puts them among the ever-living bits of literature. 
The fable of the over-ambitious frog has been quoted. Here 
is a laugh at another common foible. 



158 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

THE CROW AND THE FOX 

(From Longfellow's "Poetry of Europe") 

A master crow, perched on a tree one day, 

Was holding in his beak a cheese; — 
A master fox, by the odor drawn that way, 

Spake unto him in words like these: 

"O, good morning, my Lord Crow! 
How well you look! how handsome you do grow! 
Ton my honor, if your note 
Bears a resemblance to your coat, 
You are the phoenix of the dwellers in these woods." 
At these words does the crow exceedingly rejoice; 
And, to display his beauteous voice, 
He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods. 

The fox seized on't and said, "My good Monsieur, 
Learn that every flatterer 
Lives at the expense of him who hears him out. 
This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt." 
The crow, ashamed, and much in pain, 
Swore, but a little late, they'd not catch him so again. 

A charming bit of allegory has been translated by William 
Cullen Bryant. 

* LOVE AND FOLLY 

Love's worshippers alone can know 

The thousand mysteries that are his; 
His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 

His blooming age are mysteries. 
A charming science — but the day 

Were all too short to con it o'er; 
So take of me this little lay 

A sample of its boundless lore. 

At once, beneath the fragrant shade 
Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air, 

The children, Love and Folly, played — 
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 

* Courtesy of D. Appleton & Company. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 159 

Love said the gods should do him right — 

But Folly vowed to do it then, 
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, 

So hard- he never saw again. 

His lovely mother's grief was deep, 

She called for vengeance on the deed; 
A beauty does not vainly weep, 

Nor coldly does a mother plead. 
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss 

That fills the dwellers of the skies: 
Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 

And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 

"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy," 

While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
"Immortal, yet shut out from joy 

And sunshine, all his future years. 
The child can never take, you see, 

A single step without a staff — 
The harshest punishment would be 

Too lenient for the crime by half." 

All said that Love had suffered wrong, 

And well that wrong should be repaid; 
Then weighed the public interest long, 

And long the party's interest weighed. 
And thus decreed the court above — 

" Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, 
Let Folly be the guide of Love, 

Where'er the boy may choose to go." 

A tribute to one of the world's greatest comic writers is 
La Fontaine's 

EPITAPH ON MOLlfiRE 

1673 

Plautus and Terence lie beneath this stone, 
Yet, strangely, Moliere lies here alone, 
Their trinity of talents filled one heart 
And France rejoiced in its consummate art. 



160 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

They all are gone, and little hope is left 
Of seeing them again; we are bereft 
For ages yet to come; when all is said, 
Terence and Plautus, Moliere, are dead. 

The most outstanding expression of the seventeenth cen- 
tury's greatness was its drama. Here poet and playwright met 
in Corneille and Racine and Moliere. Their work will be taken 
up in the next chapter's survey of French writing for the stage. 

To satisfy the love of reading which developed in this 
century among people who had cared little for it before, 
romances came into being. They were of enormous length 
and fairly dripping with love, and they achieved popularity 
not only because they accorded with the temper of the time, 
but because they furnished an especial diversion to women 
who gave long hours to embroidery and who liked to be read 
to as they worked. Honore d'Urfe's (1568-1625) " Astree" 
of the early years was one of these stories, an interminable 
tale of the loves and adventures of remarkably well-educated 
shepherds and shepherdesses. The plot was based on his own 
experiences, for he fell in love with his brother's betrothed, 
was sent out of the country by his father to avoid complica- 
tions. Later — some say it was ten years, some twenty — he 
married the fair lady, but abandoned her promptly because 
she was kinder to her dogs than to him, and spent his time 
in celebrating her attractions in " Astree." 

Extremely popular were the plays and romances of La 
Calprenede (died in 1663) who paid d'Urfe the compliment 
of following his vein. An idea of these voluminous tales, 
made up of several plots hardly interwoven at all, may be 
gained from the following synopsis of 

CLEOPATRA 

(From Dunlop's "History of Fiction") 
The shades of night had not yet given place to the first blushes of day, 
when the disconsolate Tyridates, awakened by his cruel inquietude, and 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 161 

unable to await the approaching light, left his solitary mansion to re- 
fresh his languishing frame, and breathe his amorous thoughts on the 
shore of Alexandria. 

After some time he perceives a great conflagration on the sea, which 
he concludes must proceed from a burning vessel, and he is naturally 
led to compare the flames to those by which he is himself consumed. . . . 

This ardent lover continued his rhapsody till the approach of light, 
when he saw coming towards land a plank, on which was seated the 
queen of Ethiopia, with one of her maids of honour, while her prime 
minister was swimming behind, and impelling it to shore. Tyridates 
plunged amid the waves to their assistance, and, bidding the prime minis- 
ter, who was nearly exhausted, provide for his own security, took his 
place at the plank, by which means all parties arrived safe on land. 

The chief of the two ladies resembled Venus, . . . and would have 
been mistaken by Tyridates for a sea-goddess, had he not seen the waves 
use her too rudely to be her subjects. On reaching shore, the first con- 
cern of the lady was to faint, and the waiting-woman, who, as Puff, in 
Sheridan's "Critic," says, must always do as her mistress, and who on 
the present occasion had the same title to a swoon, instantly fell at her 
feet. When they had recovered, they were conducted, along with Eteo- 
cles, the person who attended them, to the solitary mansion of Tyridates, 
which stood in the immediate vicinity. 

After the queen had enjoyed a few hours of repose, she was waited on 
by her host, whom she entreated to relate the story of his life. Tyridates 
declared that this would oblige him to disclose what he had resolved to 
hold secret as long as his breast would contain it, and that even by the 
acknowledgment of his name, he would incur the danger of his life. 
Waiving, however, these considerations, he informed her that he was 
brother to Phraates, king of Parthia. That prince ascended the throne 
by the murder of his father, and all the rest of his family, with the excep- 
tion of Tyridates, who escaped to a neighbouring court, and afterwards 
settled in Judaea, whose king, Herod, was the avowed enemy of Phraates. 
The story of Mariamne, as it is related in Josephus, is the basis of the 
adventures of Tyridates. A coolness subsisted on the part of this princess 
towards her husband, as he had recently put to death her father . . . , 
her uncle . . . , her two grandfathers, and her brother . . . Tyridates 
fell desperately in love with Mariamne, but although she preserved her 
fidelity to Herod inviolate, Salome, that monarch's sister, in revenge 
for an ill-requited affection she had conceived for Tyridates, and from 
hatred to Mariamne, instilled the most fatal suspicions into the mind 
of her brother. It thus became necessary, both for the safety of Mari- 



162 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

amne and his own, that Tyridates should seek refuge in some other 
country. He had first repaired to Rome, but as the splendour and gaiety 
of that capital ill accorded with the frame of his mind, he had betaken 
himself to the solitary dwelling which he now inhabited. 

In return for this communication, the attendant of the queen of 
Ethiopia commences the history of the life of his mistress, which is one 
of the three main stories in the work. It relates to her love affairs with 
Caesario, son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, who had been believed dead 
through the Roman empire, but had, in fact, escaped into Ethiopia 
after the ruin of Marc Antony. 

About this time, Coriolanus, prince of Mauretania, arrived at the 
mansion of Tyridates, and his story may be considered as the principal 
one in the romance. . . . This prince was son of the celebrated Juba, 
and, after the death of his father, was educated at Rome. There he 
became enamoured of Cleopatra, the daughter of the queen of Egypt 
and Marc Antony; but disgusted by the preference which Augustus 
showed to his rival Tiberius, he one day seized an opportunity of running 
his competitor through the body on the street, and then fled into Maure- 
tania. He there raised a revolt among his father's subjects, and having 
successively defeated the Roman commanders who were sent against 
him, was invested by the inhabitants with his paternal sovereignty. 
After his coronation he set out incognito for Sicily, where the court of 
Augustus then was, in order to have a private interview with his lady 
love, but as she reproached him for perfidy, and avoided his presence, 
instead of receiving him with the kindness anticipated, he was, in conse- 
quence, thrown into a violent fever. Understanding, on his recovery, 
that Cleopatra had accompanied Augustus and his court to Egypt, he 
departed for Alexandria, in order to obtain an explanation of her ex- 
pressions and conduct. 

The romance now returns to the queen of Ethiopia, who, during her 
residence with Tyridates, was forcibly carried off by pirates, but was 
afterwards rescued by . . . the prefect of Egypt, and conducted to 
Alexandria. In the palace of the prefect she met with Elisa, who was 
daughter of the king of Parthia, and, like herself, had been delivered 
by a Roman vessel from pirates. The story of Elisa, and her lover 
Artabanus, a young adventurer, who afterwards proves to be the son 
of the great Pompey, is the third grand narrative of this production. 
Artabanus is the most warlike and most amorous of all the heroes of 
romance, and for the sake of Elisa he conquers for her father immense 
empires in Asia, almost by his individual prowess. 

It is impossible to follow the princes and princesses through the vari- 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 163 

ous adventures and vicissitudes they encounter: suffice it to say, that 
at length they are all safely assembled at Alexandria, where Augustus 
also arrives with his court, and a reconciliation takes place between Corio- 
lanus and Cleopatra. The designs of the emperor to obtain the Princess 
Elisa for his favourite Agrippa and Cleopatra for Tiberius, to the preju- 
dice of Artabanus and Coriolanus, induce these lovers to excite an insur- 
rection against the Roman power. They storm the castle of Alexandria, 
but are there besieged by Augustus, and soon reduced to extremity. The 
emperor, however, terrified by a menacing apparition of Julius Caesar, 
which about this time had unexpectedly appeared to him, consents to 
pardon the princes, and unites them to the objects of their affections. 

Mademoiselle de Scudery* (1607-1701), a surprisingly 
ugly spinster, who lived with a boasting and tyrannical 
brother, and who through her cleverness, rallied about her 
a salon that was almost a rival of the Hotel de Rambouillet, 
developed in the romance a new and alluring idea. The 
classic names of the characters that wandered through the 
6679 pages of "The Great Cyrus/' for example, cloaked 
personages of the moment, and the story introduced the 
gossip of a day when gossip was with good reason highly 
spiced. ' Cyrus' was the "Great Conde"; 'Mandane/ 
Madame de Longueville, his sister; the Egyptians, the 
people of Lorraine; the city of Artaxate, Paris; the siege of 
Cumae, the siege of Dunkirk. In "Clelia" the account of 
the palace of Valterre describes the chateau, Vaux-la-Vicomte, 
on which Fouquet, La Fontaine's friend, spent hundreds of 
thousands of francs, not all honestly earned. The minister 
was an intelligent patron of letters, by the way, and he must 
have had the charm that is a necessary asset of the swindler 
and the politician alike, for Madame de Sevigne in her 
"Letters" follows his trial with a sympathy which seems to 
reflect a general feeling. Other characters in "Clelia" are 
'Scaurus' and 'Liriane/ who represent Scarron and his wife, 
afterwards Madame de Maintenon; 'Alcandre/ Louis XIV 

* See quotation from Sainte-Beuve in Chapter IX. 



164 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

when a youth; 'Damo,' the ever beautiful Ninon de PEnclos; 
'Arricidie,' the author herself; and the group of wise men of 
Syracuse, the community at Port Royal. 

Mademoiselle de Scudery's style was amply clear in spite 
of its elaborate detail. She is sagacious in her selection of 
salient features for comment. Here is her description of 
Angelique de Rambouillet, whom she calls 'Anacrise, 5 as she 
dubs her sister 'Philomide.' 

Anacrise is not so tall as Philomide, though of good stature; but the 
brilliancy of her complexion is so surprising and its delicacy so extraor- 
dinary that if she did not have extremely beautiful and marvellously 
fine eyes it would be the cause of a thousand exclamations and compli- 
ments. The spiritual, the delicate, the fine, the proud, the playful and 
the gentle are commingled in her expression in such wise that she is at 
once feared and loved. Her good nature not being of the sort that hesi- 
tates to make war upon her friends there is no doubt that Anacrise is a 
formidable person; for I do not believe that there is any one in the world 
whose mockery is so keen and pointed as hers. There are so few things 
that can satisfy her, so few people who can please her, so few amusements 
that can appeal to her that she cannot possibly have one day of complete 
enjoyment in the whole year. 

Toward the end of the century (1678) Madame de La- 
fayette (1634-1693), who had collaborated with Segrais in 
the production of "Zaide," wrote "The Princess of Cleves," 
a piece of fiction which had more than one novel point. In 
the first place it was only one volume long as opposed to 
the ten which was Mademoiselle de Scudery's usual number. 
Then it dealt in a natural way with natural emotions and 
this was a decided step forward in the evolution of the modern 
novel. Lastly, the plot w T as perfectly possible in its main 
theme. Indeed its possibility for the twentieth century as 
well as for the seventeenth in which it was written or the 
sixteenth when its scene was laid, brings it among those books 
which live because they deal with universals. The story 
runs thus: 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 165 

To the court of Henry II comes a beautiful young woman of the high- 
est rank who has been carefully reared by a wise mother. She marries 
the Prince of Cleves who adores her, but to whom she gives esteem rather 
than affection. The Duke of Nemours, who had been on a journey, 
returns to a court, falls in love with the Princess and so impresses her 
with the delicacy as with the strength of his passion that she returns his 
love. In order to avoid him she induces her husband to allow her to 
retire to the country. The Duke finds it convenient to visit his sister, 
a country neighbor of the Princess, and one day finds himself in a summer- 
house where he overhears a conversation between the Princess and her 
husband in which she explains her reason for wishing to remain away 
from court. 

"And who is he," asks the unlucky Prince, "this happy man who 
causes you such fear, and since when and how has he found favor in your 
eyes? What road has he found to reach your heart? I have been some- 
what consoled for not having won it by the thought that it was not to 
be won, yet here another has done what I could not do! I feel a hus- 
band's jealousy and a lover's too — yet I cannot yield to a husband's 
emotions after an act like yours; you have plunged me into wretched- 
ness by the noblest mark of faithfulness that ever wife gave to husband." 

The Princess refuses to tell the name of the man she loves. 

"It seems to me," she replied, "that you ought to be content with 
my frankness. Ask me no more and do not give me cause to repent of 
what I have just done. Rest content with the assurance that I give you 
once again, that no action of mine has disclosed my feeling nor has a word 
been said to me at which I might take offence." 

By stratagem the Prince discovers that the Duke of Nemours is the 
object of his wife's affection, and sends after him a spy who follows him 
to the country house where the Princess is staying. 

The palisades were very high and there was even a second row be' 
hind them the more thoroughly to prevent entrance, so that it was very 
difficult to get in. Monsieur de Nemours succeeded, nevertheless, and 
as soon as he was in the garden he had no trouble in finding where Mad- 
ame de Cleves was, for he saw many lights in the room, and its windows 
were open. As he glided along the palisade he experienced feelings that 
may easily be imagined. He stood behind one of the long windows that 
served for door as well, to see what Madame de Cleves was doing. He 
saw that she was alone, and she looked so wonderfully lovely that he 
hardly could master the transport which the sight of her aroused in him. 
It was warm and she had no covering upon her head and neck but her 
,hair in its charming confusion. She was lying on a couch and before 



1 66 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

her was a table on which were several baskets of ribbons. She was select- 
ing some of them and Monsieur de Nemours observed that they were 
the same colors that he had worn at Tournoy. He saw that she was 
tying bows upon an unusual Indian cane that he had given his sister 
from whom Madame de Cleves had taken it, seeming not to recognize 
that it had belonged to Monsieur de Nemours. After she had finished 
her task with a grace and gentleness that brought to her expression the 
emotions that she felt in her heart, she took a candle and went to a large 
table opposite a picture of the siege of Metz in which was a likeness of 
Monsieur de Nemours. She sat down before it and gazed at the portrait 
with a close and dreamy attention that love alone could give. 

What Monsieur de Nemours felt now need not be described. To see 
in the middle of the night, in the most beautiful spot in the world, a 
person whom he adored, to see her without her knowing that he saw her, 
and to see her occupied with things that concerned him and her love 
for him — no other lover ever had known or imagined such a circumstance! 

Nemours makes some sound which alarms the Princess who hastens 
to her women. The spy reports the Duke's visit to the Prince of Cleves 
who straightway falls ill and dies, though persuaded of his wife's inno- 
cence. The Princess refuses to change her widowhood and spends the 
remainder of her short life in seclusion. 

The popularity of this story, written in an elevated tone 
at a time when Louis XIV was setting no good example for 
court or country to follow, is but another instance of the real 
force of goodness in fiction. People like it provided it is not 
namby-pamby. 

One of the paradoxes that marked this century of poignant 
contrasts was the strong strain of seriousness which affected 
even people leading a supposedly frivolous life. Yet this 
paradox is but another expression of the contrasts of the 
French " genius" with its roots of earnestness and its folia- 
tion of lightness. Religious thought turned to Quietism, a 
doctrine of mystic meditation, and was strongly affected by 
the teachings of Jansen, a Dutch Roman Catholic theologian 
whose views on the freedom of the will appealed to many 
Protestants and even secured a noteworthy following among 
Catholics who were not Jesuits. Of these the best known 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 167 

gathered under the leadership of Antoine Arnauld (16 12- 
1694) in a semi-communistic group about the convent of 
Port Royal in the Chevreuse Valley, where resided several 
ladies who were relatives established in the religious life. 
Before Port Royal came under Louis XIV's condemnation 
in 1 7 10, it had a century of usefulness as a school for young 
people, as a force encouraging religious and philosophic 
thought, and as a promoter of literary dignity and serious- 
ness. Arnauld's work was marked by excellent common 
sense. Here is a paragraph on 

JUDGMENT 

There is nothing more estimable than good sense and justness of mind 
in the discernment of the true and the false. All other mental qualities 
have a limited range; but exactness of reasoning power is generally useful 
in all of life's aspects and employments. It is not only in science that it 
is hard to distinguish truth from error; it is difficult also in most of the 
subjects of which men talk and of the occupations which they carry on. 
Almost everywhere are different paths, some true, others false, and it 
is reason's part to make choice of them. Those who choose well are those 
who are mentally exact; those who take the wrong road are those who 
are lacking in reasoning power; and this is the first and the foremost 
distinction to be made in the qualities of men's minds. 

Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) was the most famous of the 
Port Royal writers. He was a mathematician and a physi- 
cist and he brought a mind trained in scientific reasoning to 
bear upon the discussion of theological problems. His main 
argument was the futility of reason as against faith. His 
"Provincial Letters," written in defense of Arnauld, are 
famous for their searching argument. His "Thoughts/' 
though scattered, make a workable philosophy. 

♦SELECTED THOUGHTS OF BLAISE PASCAL 

The most important thing in the whole of life is the choice of a vocation. 
Chance disposes it. Custom makes masons, soldiers, tilers. "That is 

* Translated by Gertrude Burford Rawlings. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing 
Company. 



1 68 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

an excellent tiler," they say; and in speaking of soldiers, "They are 
perfect fools"; and others say just the opposite, "There is nothing great 
but war; all other men are knaves." We choose these professions because 
in our childhood we have heard them praised and others disparaged, 
for we naturally love truth and hate folly; these two words stir us; we 
err only in their application. So great is the force of custom, that out 
of those whom nature has made simply men, are fashioned all sorts of 
men; for some districts are all masons, others all soldiers, etc. Without 
doubt nature is not so uniform. Therefore it is custom which does this, 
for it constrains nature; though sometimes nature overcomes custom, 
and keeps man in his instinct in spite of all custom, good or bad. 

A portrait carries with it absence and presence, pleasure and dis- 
pleasure; the reality shuts out absence and displeasure. 

Caesar was too old, it seems to me, to go about amusing himself by 
conquering the world. This amusement was good for Augustus or 
Alexander, — they were young men, and young men are difficult to re- 
strain, but Caesar ought to have been more mature. 

It is well to be wearied and fatigued by the quest of the true good, so 
that we may stretch out our arms to the Deliverer. 

Man is only a reed, the feeblest reed in nature, but he is a thinking 
reed. There is no need for the entire universe to arm itself in order to 
annihilate him: a vapour, a drop of water, suffices to kill him. But 
were the universe to crush him, man would yet be more noble than that 
which slays him, because he knows that he dies, and the advantage that 
the universe has over him; of this the universe knows nothing. Thus 
all our dignity lies in thought. By thought we must raise ourselves, not 
by space and time, which we cannot fill. Let us strive, then, to think 
well, — therein is the principle of morality. 

Reflections on human nature are always appealing when 
truth is epigrammatically expressed, and Francois de la 
Rochefoucauld (16 13-1680) achieved a great popularity by 
his "Maxims." Though they are based on the cynical belief 
that all of man's activities are prompted by self-interest, they 
are nevertheless rich in suggestions of moral value. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 169 

The duration of our passions depends less on us than on the duration 
of our lives. 

We all have sufficient fortitude to endure the troubles of others. 

Philosophy easily triumphs over troubles past and troubles to come, 
but it is conquered by present troubles. 

Jealousy feeds on doubt, and it rises to madness or it ends when doubt 
becomes certainty. 

Happiness rests upon taste and not upon things, and a man is happy 
because he has what he likes and not because he has what others like. 

One is never so happy or unhappy as he thinks he is. 

Nothing ought to lessen our satisfaction in ourselves so much as to 
see that at one time we disapprove of what we approve at another. 

There is no disguise that can long conceal the presence of love, or feign 
it in its absence. 

Love, like fire, cannot live without perpetual agitation, and it ceases 
to live when it ceases to hope or fear. 

Everybody complains of his memory and no one complains of his 
judgment. 

We are so used to donning a disguise before other people that at last 
we wear one before ourselves. 

One would rather abuse himself than not speak of himself at all. 

We easily forget our faults when we are the only ones who know them. 

Foolishness and wisdom increase with age. 

It is a great piece of foolishness to try to be wise all by yourself. 

Youth is a continual intoxication; it is the fever of reason. 

It is impossible to love again what one has truly ceased to love. 

Pardon marches with love. 

The reason why lovers do not tire of being together is because they are 
all the time talking about themselves. 

ON CONVERSATION 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 
The reason why so few people are agreeable in conversation is, that 
every one thinks more of what he wishes to say than of what others say. 
We should listen to those who speak, if we would be listened to by them; 
we should allow them to make themselves understood, and even to say 
pointless things. Instead of contradicting or interrupting them, as we 
often do, we ought on the contrary to enter into their mind and into 
their taste, show that we understand them, praise what they say so far 
as it deserves to be praised, and make them see that it is rather from 
choice that we praise them than from courtesy. We should avoid dis- 



170 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

puting about indifferent things, seldom ask questions (which are almost 
always useless), never let them think that we pretend to more sense 
than others, and easily cede the advantage of deciding a question. 

We ought to talk of things naturally, easily, and more or less seriously, 
according to the temper and inclination of the persons we entertain; 
never press them to approve what we say, nor even to reply to it. When 
we have thus complied with the duties of politeness, we may express our 
opinions, without prejudice or obstinacy, in making it appear that we 
seek to support them with the opinions of those who are listening. 

We should avoid talking much of ourselves, and often giving ourselves 
as example. We cannot take too much pains to understand the bent 
and the compass of those we are talking with, in order to link ourselves 
to the mind of him whose mind is the most highly endowed; and to add 
his thoughts to our own, while making him think as much as is possible 
that it is from him we take them. There is cleverness in not exhausting 
the subjects we treat, and in always leaving to others something to 
think of and say. 

We ought never to talk with an air of authority, nor make use of words 
and expressions grander than the things. We may keep our opinions, 
if they are reasonable; but in keeping them, we should never wound the 
feelings of others, or appear to be shocked at what they have said. It 
is dangerous to wish to be always master of the conversation, and to talk 
of the same thing too often; we ought to enter indifferently on all agree- 
able subjects which offer, and never let it be seen that we wish to draw 
the conversation to a subject we wish to talk of. 

It is necessary to observe that every kind of conversation, however 
polite or however intelligent it may be, is not equally proper for all kinds 
of well-bred persons; we should choose what is suited to each, and choose 
even the time for saying it: but if there be much art in knowing how to 
talk to the purpose, there is not less in knowing how to be silent. There 
is an eloquent silence, — it serves sometimes to approve or to condemn; 
there is a mocking silence; there is a respectful silence. There are, in 
short, airs, tones, and manners in conversation which often make up what 
is agreeable or disagreeable, delicate or shocking: the secret for making 
good use of them is given to few persons, those even who make rules for 
them mistake them sometimes; the surest, in my opinion, is to have 
none that we cannot change, to let our conversation be careless rather 
than affected, to listen, to speak seldom, and never to force ourselves to 
talk. 

Another great name at Port Royal was that of Racine the 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 171 

dramatist, who came with other young men of the day to sit 
at the feet of the clearest thinkers and simplest writers and 
speakers of the century. 

On the list of the world's great metaphysicians and phi- 
losophers Rene Descartes (1596-1630) stands in the high- 
est rank. Malebranche, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Kant, and Comte 
all drew inspiration from this Frenchman, who, like Pascal, 
began his student life as a mathematician and a physicist. 
"I think, therefore I exist" was the undeniable truth on 
which he based the metaphysical conclusions which ran at 
variance with the scholastic arguments which had been 
handed down from the Middle Ages. That he could also 
write with feeling on commoner themes the following sym- 
pathetic bit testifies: 



CONDOLENCE WRITTEN TO A FRIEND WHO HAD JUST 
LOST A MEMBER OF HIS FAMILY 

Although I am something of a recluse from the world, the sad news 
of your affliction has not failed to reach me. I am not among those who 
think that tears and grief belong only to women and that in order to 
play the man one should always force one's self to keep a tranquil face. 
I, too, have recently experienced the loss of two people who were very 
near to me, and I felt that those who wished to forbid all sadness only 
increased it, while I was comforted by the sympathy of those whom I saw 
touched by my sorrow. Nevertheless there should be a limit; and just 
as it would be barbarous not to be at all afflicted when one has reason, 
so would it be also unwise not to seek with all one's power to be delivered 
from so painful a passion. 

It is true that weak and common minds, without realizing what it is 
they think, imagine that God is almost obliged to do for love of them all 
that they desire; but a strong and generous soul like yours, understand- 
ing the conditions under which we live, always submits to His law. 

As to the well-being of the person whom you mourn — neither reason 
nor religion need fear evil after this existence for those who have lived 
their lives honorably and well, and who have died as they have lived, but, 
on the contrary, both promise for them joys and rewards. I well know 
that I tell you here nothing new; but one should not despise good rem- 



172 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

edies simply because they are frequent; and having taken this remedy 
myself, I feel obliged to pass it on to you. 

Of great moral influence because of their generally fearless 
exposition of truth as they saw it and of facts as they existed 
were the preachers who followed one another through the 
century in an ascending scale of worth. The early orators 
were ' spellbinders ' and attracted by their eloquence. The 
later men added to eloquence a strong ethical appeal, and the 
combination drew fashionable people to listen not only to 
funeral orations and sermons on occasions of ceremony, but 
to enjoy whole-heartedly all sermons, controversial, psycho- 
logical, and polemic. 

Jacques B£nigne Bossuet (1627-1704) was the Dau- 
phin's tutor, and, later, was appointed to the bishopric of 
Meaux. His sermons have been longest remembered for 
their vigor and directness. He wrote earnestly and clearly 
on theological subjects and a "Discourse Upon Universal 
History" made an appeal of permanent importance. 

FROM THE "DISCOURSE UPON UNIVERSAL HISTORY' ' 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Even were history useless to other men, it would still be necessary to 
have it read by princes. There is no better way of making them dis- 
cover what can be brought about by passions and interests, by times and 
circumstances, by good and bad advice. The books of historians are 
filled with the actions that occupy them, and everything therein seems 
to have been done for their use. If experience is necessary to them for 
acquiring that prudence which enables them to become good rulers, 
nothing is more useful to their instruction than to add to the example 
of past centuries the experiences with which they meet every day. While 
usually they learn to judge of the dangerous circumstances that sur- 
round them, only at the expense of their subjects and of their own glory, 
by the help of history they form their judgment upon the events of the 
past without risking anything. When they see even the most completely 
hidden vices of princes exposed to the eyes of all men, in spite of the in- 
sincere praise which they received while alive, they feel ashamed of the 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 173 

empty joy which flattery gives them, and they acknowledge that true 
glory cannot obtain without real merit. 

Moreover, it would be disgraceful, — I do not say for a prince, but in 
general for any educated man, — not to know the human kind and the 
memorable changes which took place in the world through the lapse of 
ages. If we do not learn from history to distinguish the times, we shall 
represent men under the law of nature, or under the civil law, the same 
as under the sway of the gospel; we shall speak of the Persians conquered 
under Alexander in the same way as of the Persians victorious under 
Cyrus; we shall represent Greece as free in the time of Philip as in the 
time of Themistocles or Miltiades; the Roman people as proud under 
the Emperors as under the Consuls; the Church as quiet under Dio- 
cletian as under Constantine; and France, disturbed by civil wars under 
Charles IX and Henry III, as powerful as in the time of Louis XIV, when, 
united under such a great king, alone she triumphs over the whole of 
Europe. 

Louis Bourdaloue (163 2-1 704) was above all else a 
pulpit speaker, though his sermons make good reading. He 
was a Jesuit, persuasive and convincing, and of a valiant 
courage in attacking the sins and foibles of the people who 
sat before him. His remarks on " Ambition" must have hit 
home. 

While Ambition is being pursued, she holds before the eyes of him whom 
she blinds a flourishing condition in which there shall be nothing more to 
be desired. The pursuer's wishes shall be attained, he shall taste the 
pleasure which is sweetest to him and by which he shall be most sensibly 
affected; he shall know, dominate, order, be the arbiter of affairs and the 
dispenser of favors, scintillate in a ministry, in a position of dazzling dig- 
nity, receive the incense of the public and its submission, and make 
himself feared, honored and respected. 

All this represents for him a most agreeable idea, and paints in his 
imagination the object most conforming to the wishes of his heart; but 
at bottom it is but an idea, and what it holds of reality is that, in order 
to attain to the desired goal which the imagination paints so full of 
pleasure, it is necessary to take a thousand measures all equally weary- 
ing, and all contrary to his inclination. He must undermine his strength 
with reflection and study, add thought to thought, design to design, 
iount all his words, guard all his actions, keep perpetually an attitude 



174 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

of unrelaxed attention both toward himself and others. In order to 
content the single passion of raising himself to this state, he must ex- 
pose himself to the danger of becoming the prey of all the passions; for 
is there a single passion within us that Ambition does not arouse 
against us? 

And is it not Ambition who, in accordance with the different circum- 
stances and various feelings by which she is set in motion, now embitters 
us with the most venomous spite, now poisons us with the most mortal 
enmities, now inflames us with the most violent anger, now overwhelms 
us with the most profound sadness, now tears us with the blackest melan- 
choly, now devours us with the most cruel jealousy? Is it not Ambition 
who makes a soul suffer as in a kind of hell, and who rends it by a thousand 
torments both within and without? 

Man of affairs, teacher, psychologist, preacher, Francois 
de la Mothe-F£'N&lon (1651-1715) archbishop of Cambrai, 
exercised all his functions in the service of France and of the 
king. He was the tutor of the Dauphin's son for whom he 
wrote "Telemachus," a happy combination of classical lore 
with modern wisdom; he advocated measures looking to the 
political advancement of the people; he was a discriminating 
critic; and he preached and wrote in a nervous yet graceful 
and imaginative style. 

*THE GODDESS CALYPSO 

From li Telemachus^ 

Telemachus followed the goddess as she moved away, surrounded by a 
bevy of young nymphs, taller by a head than any of her handmaidens, 
and like some great oak of the forest that spreads its leafy branches above 
its neighbors. He admired the splendor of her beauty, the rich purple 
of her long and trailing draperies, her tresses gathered at the neck in a 
loose but graceful knot, and her sparkling eyes, whose vivacity was 
tempered by a certain sweetness. Mentor, with modestly downcast 
eyes, followed Telemachus. On arriving at the grotto of Calypso, Tele- 
machus was surprised to see that despite an air of rustic simplicity, it 
was provided with all that could charm the eye. There was there neither 
gold nor silver, neither marble nor columns, neither paintings nor statues, 
* From ''Library of the World's Best Literature." 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 175 

The grotto itself was cut out of the living rock, and its vaulted roof was 
ornamented with pebbles and sea-shells. Along the walls a young vine 
had trailed its supple branches, and clothed the grotto with the greenest 
of tapestries. Gentle zephyrs fanned a delicious fragrance into this 
favored spot, and cooled the rays of the sun, while from many fountains 
the sweet waters stole softly away over beds of amarynths and violets, 
and gathered here and there into crystal pools. Countless flowers sprang 
from the fresh earth on all sides, and enameled the green turf with the 
loveliest of colors. Here the eye rested upon a forest of umbrageous 
trees, among whose leafy branches hung golden apples, and whose 
blooms, renewed with every season, shed around the most delicious of 
perfumes. This forest seemed almost to hide the rich meadows, and to 
cast over them a deep night that no rays of the sun could penetrate, but 
through which could be heard the songs of birds, and the noise of a water- 
fall that dashed in foamy masses from the summit of a rock and hastened 
away across the plain. 

* TO ONE IN PERPLEXITY 

From "Spiritual Letters" 

You doubt, and you cannot bear up under doubt. I am not sur- 
prised; doubt is torture; but do not argue, and you will cease to doubt. 
The shadows of a simple faith are very different from doubt; its troubles 
bring their own consolation and fruits. After they have reduced a man 
they restore him, and leave him in full peace. Doubt is the trouble of a 
soul left to itself, which wants to see what God hides from it, and out of 
self-love seeks impossible securities. What have you sacrificed to God, 
save your own judgment and self-interest? Would you lose sight of that 
which has been your aim from your very first step, namely, to abandon 
yourself to God? Would you make shipwreck when just in port, recall 
your gift, and require God to subject himself to your rules, whereas he 
requires, and you have promised, to walk Abraham-like in the deepest 
darkness of faith? And what merit would there be in your course, if 
you had miracles and revelations to make sure of your path? Miracles 
and revelations would soon lose their force, and you would fall back into 
your doubts. You are giving way to temptation. Do not hearken to 
yourself; your real convictions, if you will follow them simply, will put 
to flight all these phantoms. 

Jean Baptiste Massillon (1663-1742), bishop of Cler- 

* From "Library of the World's Best Literature." 



176 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

mont, was the last of the famous preachers. Since his death 
France has known no such powerful pulpit oratory. Yet 
Massillon was inferior to his predecessor because his style 
was superior to his matter. He was extremely popular with 
men and women of widely different minds and interests. 
He preached the funeral sermon over the Dauphin and also 
over the Sun King himself, who was his cordial admirer from 
the time when he had listened to his first court sermon, from 
which is taken the following extract. 

♦THE BLESSEDNESS OF THE RIGHTEOUS 
Text: "Blessed are they that mourn" 

Sire : If the world were speaking here instead of Jesus Christ, no doubt 
it would not offer such language as this to your Majesty. 

"Blessed the Prince," it would say to you, " who has never fought but 
to conquer; who has seen so many powers in arms against him, only to 
gain glory in granting them peace; who has always been equally greater 
than danger and greater than victory! 

"Blessed the Prince, who throughout the course of a long and flourish- 
ing reign has peacefully enjoyed the emoluments of his glory, the love 
of his subject peoples, the esteem of his enemies, the admiration of all 
the world, the advantage of his conquests, the magnificence of his works, 
the wisdom of his laws, the august hope of a numerous posterity; and who 
has nothing more to desire than long to preserve that which he possesses ! " 

Thus the world would speak; but, Sire, Jesus does not speak like the 
world. 

"Blessed," says he to you, "not he who is achieving the admiration 
of his age, but he who is making the world to come his principal concern, 
and who lives in contempt of himself, and of all that is passing away; 
because his is the kingdom of heaven. 

"Blessed, not he whose reign and whose acts history is going to im- 
mortalize into the remembrance of men, but he whose tears shall have 
effaced the story of his sins from the remembrance of God himself; be- 
cause he will be eternally comforted. 

"Blessed, not he who shall have extended by new conquests the limits 
of his empire, but he who shall have confined his inclinations and pas- 

* From "Library of the World's Best Literature." 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 177 

sions within the limits of the law of God; because he will possess an estate 
more lasting than the empire of the whole world. 

"Blessed, not he who, raised by the acclamations of subject peoples 
above all the princes who have preceded him, peacefully enjoys his 
grandeur and his glory, but he who, not finding on the throne even any- 
thing worthy of his heart, seeks for perfect happiness here below only 
in virtue and in righteousness; because he will be satisfied. 

"Blessed, not he to whom men shall have given the glorious titles of 
1 Great ' and 'Invincible,' but he to whom the unfortunate shall have 
given, before Jesus, the title of ' Father' and of ' Merciful'; because he 
will be treated with mercy. 

"Blessed, in fine, not he who, being always arbiter of the destiny of his 
enemies, has more than once given peace to the earth, but he who has 
been able to give it to himself, and to banish from his heart the vices 
and inordinate affections which trouble the tranquillity of it; because he 
will be called a child of God." 

These, Sire, are they whom Jesus calls blessed, and the Gospel does 
not know any other blessedness on earth than virtue and innocence. 

Early in the century Jean Guez de Balzac (1597-1654) 
adopted a literary form little used before then but developed 
later with an art which has given preeminence to French 
writers of letters and of memoirs. Balzac's style led his 
prose-producing contemporaries but it was ponderous, as the 
following epistle will show: 

LETTER TO CARDINAL DE LA VALETTE 

Monseigneur, — The hope that was given me three months ago that 
you were about to pass your days in this country has prevented me until 
now from writing to you, and from using this sole means that is left of 
approaching your person. 

In Rome, you will walk on stones that were once the gods of Caesar 
and of Pompey; you will ponder over the ruins of those great works whose 
old age is still beautiful, and you will saunter every day midst history 
and fable; but these are pastimes for a spirit which is contented by little 
and are not occupations for one who finds pleasure in navigating his bark 
amidst storms. After you have seen the Tiber on whose banks the 
Romans first tasted victory and where they began the long plan of con- 
quest which they did not complete save at the extremities of the earth; 



178 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

when you have entered into the Capitol, where they believe that God 
is as present as in Heaven and which He has destined to become the 
centre of universal monarchy; after you have traversed that great space 
which used to be dedicated to the pleasures of the people, I doubt not 
that after you have seen many other things still, you will become weary 
at last of the repose and tranquillity of Rome. 

For an infinity of important reasons there is need that you should be 
at the first conclave, and that you be present at this war which does not 
lack importance because waged by unarmed people. Whatever great 
object your ambition proposes for itself, it can conceive nothing higher 
than at one and the same time to give a successor to the consuls, emperors, 
and apostles and to elect by your eloquence him, who tramples on the 
heads of kings and who has the guardianship of all souls. 

A quarter of a century later de la Rochefoucauld and 
Cardinal de Retz, both of whom have been quoted, com- 
mented shrewdly and frankly upon men they had known and 
actions in which they had taken part. Their portraits are 
beyond price to the student of the period and, indeed, from 
a group of these keen-eyed observers the society of the cen- 
tury may be reconstructed as completely as has been 
done from a The Grand Cyrus " of Mademoiselle Scudery. 
St. Simon (1675-1755) covered the end of the century, with its 
persecutions of Protestants and Jansenists, the late wars, and 
the early part of Louis XV's reign. The extract below shows 
the chatty style of this admirable writer of recollections. 

* A PARAGON OF POLITENESS 

From the "Memoirs" 

The Due de Coislin died about this time. I have related in its 
proper place an adventure that happened to. him and his brother, the 
Chevalier de Coislin: now I will say something more of the duke. He 
was a very little man, of much humor and virtue, but of a politeness that 
was unendurable, and that passed all bounds, though not incompatible 
with dignity. He had been lieutenant-general in the army. Upon one 
occasion, after a battle in which he had taken part, one of the Rhin- 
graves who had been made prisoner fell to his lot. The Due de Coislin 
* From "Library of the World's Best Literature." 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 179 

wished to give up to the other his bed, which consisted indeed of but a 
mattress. They complimented each other so much, the one pressing, 
the other refusing, that in the end they both slept on the ground, leav- 
ing the mattress between them. The Rhingrave in due time came to 
Paris and called on the Due de Coislin. When he was going, there was 
such a profusion of compliments, and the duke insisted so much on seeing 
him out, that the Rhingrave, as a last resource, ran out of the room and 
double-locked the door outside. M. de Coislin was not thus to be out- 
done. His apartments were only a few feet above the ground. He 
opened the window accordingly, leaped out into the court, and arrived 
thus at the entrance door before the Rhingrave, who thought the Devil 
must have carried him there. The Due de Coislin, however, had man- 
aged to put his thumb out of joint by this leap. He called in Felix, chief 
surgeon of the King, who soon put the thumb to rights. Soon after- 
wards Felix made a call upon M. de Coislin to see how he was, and found 
that the cure was perfect. As he was about to leave, M. de Coislin must 
needs open the door for him. Felix, with a shower of bows, tried hard 
to prevent this; and while they were thus vying in politeness, each with 
a hand upon the door, the duke suddenly drew back; — he had put his 
thumb out of joint again, and Felix was obliged to attend to it on the 
spot! It may be imagined what laughter this story caused the King, 
and everybody else, when it became known. 

Madame de Maintenon's (1635-1716) interest in educa- 
tion was by no means perfunctory. She trained her royal 
charges with care, and when she was raised beyond financial 
need she established a boarding school for girls (Saint-Cyr) 
and wrote for their benefit and to help all teachers of girls 
several educational treatises full of good sense and good 
temper. This letter to an ambitious niece must have been 
distinctly crushing. 

I love you too fondly, my dear niece, not to tell you the truth. I tell 
it to the young girls at Saint-Cyr, and why should I neglect you whom 
I regard as my own daughter? I know not if it is you who inspire them 
with haughtiness or they who arouse in you what they admire in you. 
Whichever it may be you will be insupportable if you do not become 
humble. The tone of authority that you assume is not becoming. 

Do you think that you are an important personage because you have 
been reared in a house to which the King goes every day? The day after 



180 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

his death neither his successor nor those who caress you will pay any 
attention either to you or to Saint-Cyr. If the King dies before you 
marry you will probably wed some provincial gentleman with little prop- 
erty and much pride. If, during my lifetime you marry a nobleman he 
will esteem you after my death only in such measure as you please him; 
and you will please him only by gentleness — a quality of which you have 
none at all. I am not prejudiced against you, but I observe in you the 
terrible fault of pride. You know the evangel by heart, and what does 
that avail if you are not guided by its maxims? 

Remember that it is merely your aunt's fortune that has made your 
father's and will make yours, and pay small heed to the attentions that 
are paid you. Perhaps you would even be glad to be raised to a position 
above mine. Do not flatter yourself; I am a small matter and you are 
nothing at all. 

I speak to you as to a grown girl because you have the intelligence of 
one. I should be heartily glad if you had less, provided you lost this 
presumption which is ridiculous in the eyes of men and criminal before 
God. If I find you when I come back modest, sweet, shy, docile, I shall 
love you the more. You know how hard it is for me to scold you, yet 
what a satisfaction it is to do it. 

More general than the memoir writers, and more universal 
because describing types as did Theophrastus who was his 
model, was Jean de la Bruyere (1645-1696). His " Char- 
acters" were cunningly drawn, were received with joy by the 
century into which they fitted, and are read to-day with de- 
lighted recognition. 'Cydias' in the following portrait, was 
Fontenelle whose life, spanning a full century (1657-1757) was 
first given over to the production of verse which La Bruyere 
thought absurd, and later to the useful spreading of scientific 
knowledge in a popular form. 

* THE CHARACTER OF CYDIAS 

From the " Characters " 

Ascanius is a sculptor, Hegio an iron-founder, ^Eschines a fuller, and 

Cydias a wit, for that is his trade. He has a signboard, a shop, work 

that is ordered, and journeymen who work under him; he cannot possibly 

let you have those stanzas he has promised you in less than a month, 

* From "Library of the World's Best Literature." 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 181 

unless he breaks his word with Dosithea, who has engaged him to write 
an elegy; he has also an idyl on the loom which is for Crantor, who presses 
him for it, and has promised him a liberal reward. You can have what- 
ever you like — prose or verse, for he is just as good in one as in the other. 
If you want a letter of condolence, or one on some person's absence, he 
will write them: he has them even ready-made, step into his warehouse, 
and you may pick and choose. Cydias has a friend who has nothing 
else to do but to promise to certain people a long time beforehand that 
the great man will come to them, and who finally introduces him in 
some society as a man seldom to be met with and exquisite in conversa- 
tion. Then, just as a vocalist sings or as a lute-player touches his instru- 
ment in a company where it has been expected, Cydias, after having 
coughed, puts back his ruffles, extends his hand, opens his fingers, and 
very gravely utters his over-refined thoughts and his sophisticated argu- 
ments. Unlike those persons whose principles agree, and who know 
that reason and truth are one and the same thing, and snatch the words 
out of one another's mouths to acquiesce in one another's sentiments, 
he never opens his mouth but to contradict: " I think," he says graciously, 
"it is just the opposite of what you say": or, "I am not at all of your 
opinion;" or else, "Formerly I was under the same delusion as you are 
now; but ... "; and then he continues, "There are three things to be 
considered," to which he adds a fourth. He is an insipid chatterer; no 
sooner has he obtained a footing into any society than he looks out for 
some ladies whom he can fascinate, before whom he can set forth his 
wit or his philosophy, and produce his rare conceptions: for whether he 
speaks or writes, he ought never to be suspected of saying what is true 
or false, sensible or ridiculous; his only care is not to express the same 
sentiments as some one else, and to differ from everybody. Therefore in 
conversation, he often waits till every one has given his opinion on some 
casual subject, or one which not seldom he has introduced himself, in 
order to utter dogmatically things which are perfectly new, but which 
he thinks decisive and unanswerable. He is, in a word, a compound 
of pedantry and formality, to be admired by cits and rustics; in whom, 
nevertheless, there is nothing great except the opinion he has of himself. 

Most winning of all the prose writers of the whole century 
is the Marquise de Sevigne (1626-1696) whose letters ad- 
dressed to her daughter in the provinces are not only charm- 
ing in style, but are an ample record of the happenings at 
court, at the Hotel de Rambouillet and in Paris society. 



182 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

She herself was as bewitching as she was clever. De Mon- 
treuil addressed a quatrain 

TO MME. DE SEVIGNE PLAYING BLIND MAN'S BUFF 

(From "Library of Poetry and Song" edited by William Cullen Bryant) 

You charm when you walk, talk or move 

Still more on this day than another: 
When blinded — you're taken for Love; 

When the bandage is off — for his mother! 

Madame de Sevigne's tale of events is not only valuable as 
a record of facts and of her own opinion concerning them — it 
reflects also the general attitude of society toward them. 
Her account of Fouquet's trial, of the famous poisoning 
scandals, of the astounding announcement of the approach- 
ing marriage of the Grande Mademoiselle (Duchess of Mont- 
pensier and cousin of Louis XIV) and of the equally astound- 
ing announcement that it would not take place, have a 
historic interest now as well as a news interest at the time of 
writing. She comments on books — she adores La Calprenede 
— and on preachers — Bourdaloue took her breath away — and 
on fashions, whose latest whims she describes for the benefit 
of the dweller far from fashion's center. Mademoiselle de 
Sevigne, by the way, was the third wife of that Marquis de 
Grignan who had married for his first wife, Angelique de 
Rambouillet. 

In addition to a grist of cheerful gossip the quotations be- 
low give an idea of the amusements offered the Grand Mon- 
arch, and the seriousness with which his entertainment was 
regarded by the people who had the honor of sharing in even 
a subordinate way in providing for it. 

To Madame de Grignan: 

Friday evening, April 24, 167 1 
at M. de la Rochefoucauld's 
I am preparing my packet here. I was planning to tell you that the 
King arrived at Chantilly yesterday evening; he hunted a stag by moon- 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 183 

light; the lanterns did wonders, but the fireworks were somewhat effaced 
by the brightness of our lunar friend; still the evening, the supper, the 
play ail went off wonderfully well. To-day's weather made us hope for 
a worthy continuance of so pleasant a beginning. But here is what I 
learned upon reaching here, a piece of news from which I cannot recover, 
and which has made me forget what I was going to tell you. It is that 
Vatel, the great Vatel, M. Fouquet's steward, and but now of M. le 
Prince's household, the man whose ability distinguished him above 
all others, and whose clever head could contain all the responsibility of 
a state; the man whom I knew — because the fish had not come this morn- 
ing at eight o'clock, could not endure the shame with which he thought 
that he was going to be overwhelmed, and, in short, stabbed himself. 
You can imagine the terrible disorder into which such an accident has 
thrown the fete. Just fancy that perhaps the fish came while he was 
dying. At the moment I know nothing more about it; I fancy that you 
find it enough. I do not doubt that the confusion was great; it was a 
sad ending to an entertainment that cost fifty thousand crowns. 

To Madame De Grignan: 

Paris, Sunday, 
April 26, 1671 
It is Sunday the 26th of April; this letter will not go until Wednesday; 
but it is not a letter, it is a recital of what Moreuil has just told me 
on your behalf, of the Vatel matter at Chantilly. I wrote you on Friday 
that he had stabbed himself; here is the affair in detail. The King ar- 
rived on Thursday evening; the promenade, the collation served in a 
spot carpeted with jonquils, all went off successfully. There was a sup- 
per; at a few tables the roast was lacking because of several guests who 
had not been expected. This disturbed Vatel and he exclaimed several 
times "My honor is lost; I cannot endure the shame of it." He said to 
Gourville "My head is swimming; I have not slept for a dozen nights; 
help me give my orders." Gourville comforted him as well as he could. 
He kept thinking of the roast — which was not lacking at the King's 
table, by the way, but at the twenty-fifth. Gourville told M. le Prince 
about it. M. le Prince went at once to Vatel's room and said to him, 
"Vatel, everything is going on well; nothing could be finer than the King's 
supper." He answered, " Monseigneur, I am overcome by your kindness; 
I know that the roast was wanting at two tables." "Not at all," said 
M. le Prince, "don't be worried; everything is going well." Midnight 
came. The fireworks, which cost 16,000 francs, were not successful 
because of a fog. At four o'clock in the morning Vatel wandered about 



1 84 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

and found everybody asleep. He met a young steward who was bringing 
him only two baskets of fish; he asked him "Is that all?" "Yes, sir." 
He did not know that Vatel had sent to all the sea ports. Vatel waited 
for some time; the other stewards did not appear. His brain was reeling, 
he thought that there would be no more fish; he found Gourville and 
said to him: "Sir, I cannot survive this shame." Gourville made fun 
of him. Vatel went up to his room, put his sword against the door, and 
thrust it through his heart, but only at the third attempt, for he gave 
himself two blows which were not mortal. He fell dead. Meanwhile 
the fish came in from all quarters; they hunted for Vatel to give it out, 
went to his room, knocked, broke in the door, and found him drowned 
in his own blood; they ran to M. le Prince who was in despair. M. le 
Due wept; his whole journey in Burgundy depended upon Vatel. M. le 
Prince told the news to the King very sadly. The suicide was explained 
on the ground that he had his own sense of honor. He was highly praised 
and his courage was both praised and blamed. The King said that he 
had delayed his visit to Chantilly for five years because he understood 
how much trouble he would give. He told M. le Prince that he ought 
to have but two tables and not to undertake everything; and he declared 
that he would no longer permit the Prince to act thus; but it was too 
late for poor Vatel. Meanwhile Gourville tried to make up for Vatel's 
loss; and succeeded. They dined very well, they had a collation and 
supper, they walked and played and hunted. It was all perfumed with 
jonquils and quite enchanting. Yesterday, which was Saturday, they 
did about the same; and in the evening the King went to Liancourt 
where he had ordered "media moche" he must still be there to-day. This 
is what Moreuil told me hoping that I would send it on to you. I toss 
my cap over the windmills and I don't know any more about it. M. d'Hac- 
queville, who was there, doubtless will tell you the story, but as his hand- 
writing is not as legible as mine, I am writing just the same; and if I 
give you this multitude of details it is because I should like them myself 
under similar circumstances. 

To Madame De Grignan: 

Paris, Monday 

February 5, 1674 

Many years ago to-day, daughter, there came into the world a creature 

destined to love you above everything. I beg that your imagination 

will not step either to right nor left. That man, sire, is I myself* It 

was three years ago yesterday that I experienced one of the keenest 

* From a poem by Marot. 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 185 

griefs of my life. You went to Provence where you still are. My letter 
would be long if I were to explain to you all the anguish which I felt then, 
and have felt ever since in consequence of this first distress. But to 
return; I have not received a letter from you to-day; and I do not know 
if one will come. I think not because it is too late. I am awaiting it 
impatiently for I want to know your departure from Aix so that I may 
be able to reckon your return with some accuracy. Everybody is killing 
me with questions about it and I don't know what to answer. I think 
of nothing but you and your journey; if I receive your letter after I have 
sent this off, be assured I will do exactly what you ask me to. I am writ- 
ing to you to-day a little earlier than usual. M. de Corbinelli et Made- 
moiselle de Mery are here and have dined with me. I am going to a 
little opera by Moliere, the father-in-law of dTtier who sings at Pe- 
lissari's; it is a very perfect piece of music. M. le Prince, the Duke, and 
the Duchess will be there. Perhaps I shall go from there to take supper 
at Gourville's with Madame de La Fayette, the Duke, Madame de Thi- 
anges, and M. de Vivonne to whom they are bidding farewell as he is 
leaving to-morrow. If this gathering does not come off I shall go to 
Madame de Chaulnes's; I have been strongly urged to do so by the 
hostess and by the cardinals of Retz and of Bouillon who have made 
me promise to go; the former is extremely impatient to see you; he loves 
you dearly. I enclose a letter which he has sent me. 

They thought that Mademoiselle de Blois had smallpox, but it isn't 
so. The news from England is no longer talked about, which makes 
one think that it is not good news. There have been only one or two 
balls in Paris in all this Carnival. A few masqueraders are seen but not 
many. Sadness is widespread; the gatherings at Saint-Germain are a 
mortification to the King and merely mark the movement of the Car- 
nival. 

On the day of Our Lady, Father Bourdaloue preached a sermon which 
delighted everybody. It was powerful enough to make courtiers tremble; 
and never did evangelist preach Christian truths in so exalted a tone or 
so nobly. He tried to make it evident that all power ought to be sub- 
missive to law, as in the instance of Our Lord who was presented in the 
Temple. In truth, daughter, it was brought to a point of highest per- 
fection and certain passages were uttered as they might have been ut- 
tered by the Apostle St. Paul. 

The Archbishop of Reims came back yesterday at great speed from 
Saint- Germain; it was like a whirlwind. He is of the opinion that he is 
a great lord, but his people believe it even more than he does. They were 
passing through Nanterre, tra, tra, tra; they met a man on horseback. 



186 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Look out! Get out of the way!" The poor man was willing to get 
out of the way but his horse did not want to and as a result the chariot 
and its six horses threw the poor man and his horse head over heels and 
ran over them, and that so thoroughly that the chariot itself rolled over 
and over. At the same time the man and the horse instead of being 
pleased at being run down and crippled, got up, wonderful to relate, 
mounted one upon the other, tied, and are still running, while the Arch- 
bishop's lackeys and coachman and the Archbishop himself cried out, 
" Stop him, stop the rascal, give him a hundred stripes I" In telling about 
this incident the Archbishop said, "If I had caught that scamp I would 
have broken his arms and cut off his ears." 

I dined yesterday again, at Gourville's, with Madame de Langeron, 
Madame de La Fayette, Madame de Voulanges, Vorbinelli, Pabbe T£tu, 
and my son; we drank your health and appointed a day to entertain you 
at dinner. Farewell, dear loving daughter; I cannot tell you how I long 
for you. I shall address this letter to Lyons. I sent two earlier ones to 
the chamarier; it seems to me that you ought to be there now, if ever. 
I have just this moment received your letter of the 28th; it delights me. 
Do not fear, my good child, that my joy will grow cold. I am filled with 
the keenest pleasure at seeing you and receiving you and embracing you 
with emotions and expressions of love which are of a quality out of the 
common and above even what is considered highest. 

This survey of the literature of the seventeenth century 
though slight, will show that it was ' great' in the same 
sense that the century was ' great. 5 It was an aristocratic 
literature just as the century was one of aristocratic privilege 
and of royal absolutism. The writers were chiefly men and 
women of rank or at least in touch with the court. Their 
themes were such as would interest people who made pre- 
tensions to scholarship or who liked to see themselves under 
the thin disguise of classic names. Moralists dealt with the 
faults and foibles common to a human nature that had been 
subjected to such refining processes as were then known. 
When the poor were mentioned — the subject was bravely 
introduced once in a while — it was by way of arousing in- 
dividual philanthropy. Of economic discussion there was 
practically none; where was the use? Fenelon was almost 



THE GREAT CENTURY— THE SEVENTEENTH 187 

alone in urging the political remedy of calling the States 
General and it needed all his cleverness and popularity to 
make the king forgive him. 

Style was made exquisite in harmony with the desire for 
external beauty in other aspects of life; what literature 
lacked in ease and diversity it gained in precision and ele- 
gance. No greater names than Corneille, Racine, Moliere, 
La Fontaine, and Boileau have appeared in all French litera- 
ture; there are but few that approach them. That they were 
concentrated at this time put France at the head of literary 
Europe as it was when its chansons de geste captured ears 
and hearts in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The 
French " genius" was at its best; it remained for the next 
century to develop its soul. 



CHAPTER VII 
DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 

In the description of literary forms up to this time drama 
has been scarcely mentioned. This has not been from any 
lack of material, for the body of French literature is rich in 
drama, but because it has been reserved for consideration at 
the time when dramatic construction reached the extreme 
of accuracy and perfection in the 'classical' drama of the 
seventeenth century. 

The French spirit is in its very essence dramatic. It is 
fond of abstractions — and good drama makes visible an 
abstract idea; it is alert and vivid — and so is an appealing 
play; its selective power is sagacious — and the carrying 
quality of any tragedy or comedy is due to judicious choosing 
of incidents and situations. In seeming contradiction French 
literature is not only rich in drama but in psychological 
studies which demand for their development the slower 
method of the novel. Yet this love of psychology is in itself 
dramatic, for it does not arise from a Teutonic hunger for 
thorough investigation wherein the pleasure lies in the search 
itself, but from a keen curiosity as to the causes which pro- 
duce results in human life. 

The origin of the drama seems to have been in France, as 
in England, in the church. In the fourth century the priests 
wrote plays based on Greek models, though sometimes 
Christian in theme. A hundred years later funerals were 
enlivened by a service of liturgical responses and pantomime. 
From the tenth century on the church developed dramatic 
representations of the Scriptures with increasing scenic ef- 

188 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 189 

feet, for although the representations were given inside the 
churches there was scenery. In the twelfth century a move- 
ment for stirring religious enthusiasm resulted in the presen- 
tation by laymen and in the streets of similar religious plays 
made popular by being given in French and with elaborate 
scenery. People knew what Heaven and Hell looked like in 
those days for they had only to go into the market place to 
see them, and if Heaven was not any more attractive than 
the nearest count's garden, Hell was very terrible indeed! 

The crusades furnished material for a thirteenth-century 
drama which must have had a sufficient 'news interest/ 
and Rutebeuf * the pungent wrote the "Miracle of Theophi- 
lus" with all his unsparing energy. Theophilus was a priest 
who sold his soul to the Devil, but was rescued by the Virgin 
Mary. 

Through all this early period comedy crops out not only 
in the religious plays but also in lay productions usually 
prepared for use at some entertainment given by a noble. 
Adam de la Halle, one of whose poems has been quoted, 
wrote in the last half of the thirteenth century the first real 
French comedy — the "Play of the Bower." 

With the fourteenth century, torn by the horrors of the 
English wars, by pestilence, and by roving bands of desperate 
men, there developed a religious drama that showed a certain 
aspiration. Perhaps the cause was a desire for relaxation, 
perhaps a hope of divine intervention. At all events miracle 
plays, which became ' mysteries ' in the fifteenth century, 
were performed by strolling troops and by bands of players 
attached to noble houses. Of the plays based on miracles 
performed by the Virgin Mary forty have been preserved to 
us. Many of them are tender and sympathetic and show a 
spirit which is also to be found in a few secular plays of the 
time called 'moralities.' One of these moralities enacts the 

* See Chapter III. 



igo THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

history of that patient Griselda whose story Chaucer told in 
the Canterbury Tales. 

A summary of one of the "Miracles of Our Lady" tells the 
tale of 

OUR LADY'S TUMBLER * 
(Abridged from the translation of Eugene Mason) 

Now therefore will I say and narrate what chanced to this minstrel. 

He erred up and down, to and fro, so often and in so many places, that 
he took the whole world in despite, and sought rest in a certain Holy 
Order amongst the monks of Clair vaux. Now, though this dancer was 
comely of face and shapely of person, yet when he had once entered the 
monastery he found that he was master of no craft practised therein. 
In the world he had gained his bread by tumbling and dancing and feats 
of address. To leap, to spring, such matters he knew well, but of greater 
things he knew nothing, for he had never spelled from book — nor Pater- 
noster, nor canticle, nor creed, nor Hail Mary, nor aught concerning 
his soul's salvation. 

The tumbler moved amongst his fellows like a man ashamed, for he 
had neither part nor lot in all the business of the monastery, and for this 
he was right sad and sorrowful. He saw the monks and the penitents 
about him, each serving God, in this place and that, according to his 
office and degree. He marked the priests at their ritual before the altars; 
the deacons at the gospels; the sub-deacons at the epistles; and the min- 
isters about the vigils. He gazes earnestly, if so he is able, upon each. 

"These men are calling on the mercy of God, but I — what do I here? 
Here there is none so mean or vile but who serves God in his office and 
degree, save only me, for I work not, neither can I preach. I see my 
brothers upon their errands, one behind the other; but I do naught but 
fill my belly with the meat that they provide. Truly am I a caitif, set 
in a high place for a sign." 

Driven mad with thoughts such as these, he wandered about the abbey 
until he found himself within the crypt, and took sanctuary by the altar, 
crouching close as he was able. Above the altar was carved the statue 
of Madame St. Mary. When he heard the bells ring for Mass he sprang 
to his feet all dismayed. "Ha!" said he; "now am I betrayed. Each 
adds his mite to the great offering, save only me. Shall I speak my 

* A charming version of this story is given in verse by Katharine Lee Bates in "America 
the Beautiful and Other Poems." Anatoie France has made it the basis of his "Jongleur 
de Notre Dame " and Massenet has put it in opera form. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 191 

thought? Shall I work my will? By the Mother of God, thus am I set 
to do. None is here to blame. I will do that which I can, and honour 
with my craft the Mother of God in her monastery. Since others hon- 
our her with chant, then I will serve with tumbling." 

He takes of! his cowl, and removes his garments, placing them near 
the altar, but so that his body be not naked he dons a tunic, very thin 
and fine, of scarce more substance than a shirt. So, light and comely 
of body, with gown girt closely about his loins, he comes before the 
Image right humbly. Then raising his eyes, "Lady," said he, "to your 
fair charge I give my body and my soul. Sweet Queen, sweet Lady, 
scorn not the thing I know, for with the help of God I will essay to serve 
you in good faith, even as I may. I cannot read your Hours nor chant 
your praise, but at the least I can set before you what art I have. Now 
will I be as the lamb that plays and skips before his mother. Oh, Lady, 
who art nowise bitter to those who serve you with a good intent, that 
which thy servant is, that he is for you." 

Then commenced he his merry play, leaping low and small, tall and 
high, over and under. Then once more he knelt upon his knees before 
the statue, and meekly bowed his head. "Ha!" said he, "most gracious 
Queen, of your pity and your charity scorn not this my service." Again 
he leaped and played, and for holiday and festival, made the somer- 
sault of Metz. Again he bowed before the Image, did reverence, and 
paid it all the honour that he might. Afterwards he did the French 
vault, then the vault of Champagne, then the Spanish vault, then the 
vaults they love in Brittany, then the vault of Lorraine, and all these 
feats he did as best he was able. Afterwards he did the Roman vault, 
and then, with hands before his brow, danced daintily before the altar, 
gazing with a humble heart at the statue of God's Mother. "Lady," 
said he, "I set before you a fair play. This travail I do for you alone; 
so help me God, for you, Lady, and your Son. Think not I tumble for 
my own delight; but I serve you, and look for no other guerdon on my 
carpet. My brothers serve you, yea, and so do I. Lady, scorn not your 
villein, for he toils for your good pleasure; and, Lady, you are my delight 
and the sweetness of the world." Then he walked on his two hands, 
with his feet in the air, and his head near the ground. He twirled with 
his feet, and wept with his eyes. "Lady," said he, "I worship you with 
heart, with body, feet and hands, for this I can neither add to nor take 
away. Now am I your very minstrel. Others may chant your praises 
in the church, but here in the crypt will I tumble for your delight. Lady, 
lead me truly in your way, and for the love of God hold me not in utter 
despite." Then he smote upon his breast, he sighed and wept most 



192 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

tenderly, since he knew no better prayer than tears. Then he turned him 
about, and leaped once again. "Lady," said he, "as God is my Saviour, 
never have I turned this somersault before. Never has tumbler done such 
a feat, and, certes, it is not bad. Lady, what delight is his who may 
harbour with you in your glorious manor. For God's love, Lady, grant 
me such fair hostelry, since I am yours, and am nothing of my own." 
Once again he did the vault of Metz; again he danced and tumbled. 
Then when the chants rose louder from the choir, he, too, forced the note, 
and put forward all his skill. So long as the priest was about that Mass, 
so long his flesh endured to dance, and leap and spring, till at the last, 
nigh fainting, he could stand no longer upon his feet, but fell for weari- 
ness on the ground. From head to heel sweat stood upon him, drop by 
drop, as blood falls from meat turning upon the hearth. "Lady," said 
he, "I can no more, but truly will I seek you again." Fire consumed 
him utterly. He took his habit once more, and when he was wrapped 
close therein, he rose to his feet, and bending low before the statue, 
went his way. "Farewell," said he, "gentlest Friend. For God's love 
take it not to heart, for so I may I will soon return. Not one Hour shall 
pass but that I will serve you with right good will, so I may come, 
and so my service is pleasing in your sight." Thus he went from the 
crypt, yet gazing on his Lady. "Lady," said he, "my heart is sore 
that I cannot read your Hours. How would I love them for love of 
you, most gentle Lady! Into your care I commend my soul and my 
body." 

In this fashion passed many days, for at every Hour he sought the 
crypt to do service, and pay homage before the Image. His service was 
so much to his mind that never once was he too weary to set out his most 
cunning feats to distract the Mother of God, nor did he ever wish for 
other play than this. Now, doubtless, the monks knew well enough 
that day by day he sought the crypt, but not a man on earth — save God 
alone — was aware of aught that passed there; neither would he, for all 
the wealth of the world, have let his goings in be seen, save by the Lord 
his God alone. 

Thus things went well with this good man for a great space. For more 
years than I know the count of, he lived greatly at his ease, but the time 
came when the good man was sorely vexed, for a certain monk thought 
upon him, and blamed him in his heart that he was never set in choir for 
Matins. So he spied and pried and followed, till he marked him plainly, 
sweating at his craft in just such fashion as you have heard. 

The monk went straight to the Abbot and told him the thing from be- 
ginning to end. The Abbot got him on his feet, and said to the monk, 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 193 

"By holy obedience I bid you hold your peace, and tell not this tale 
abroad against your brother. Come now, we will go forthwith to see 
what this can be." Then they secretly sought the crypt, and found a 
privy place near the altar, where they could see, and yet not be seen. 
From there the Abbot and his monk marked the business of the peni- 
tent. They saw the vaults he varied so cunningly, his nimble leaping 
and his dancing, his salutations of Our Lady, and his springing and his 
bounding, till he was nigh to faint. So weak was he that he sank on the 
ground, all outworn, and the sweat fell from his body upon the pavement 
of the crypt. But presently, in this his need, came she, his refuge, to his 
aid. Well she knew that guileless heart. 

Whilst the Abbot looked, forthwith there came down from the vault 
a Dame so glorious, that certainly no man had seen one so precious, nor 
so richly crowned. She was more beautiful than the daughters of men, 
and her vesture was heavy with gold and gleaming stones. In her train 
came the hosts of Heaven, angel and archangel also; and these pressed 
close about the minstrel, and solaced and refreshed him. When their 
shining ranks drew near, peace fell upon his heart; for they contended 
to do him service, and were the servants of the servitor of that Dame 
who is the rarest Jewel of God. Then the sweet and courteous Queen 
herself took a white napkin in her hand, and with it gently fanned her 
minstrel before the altar. Courteous and debonair, the Lady refreshed 
his neck, his body and his brow. Meekly she served him as a handmaid 
in his need. But these things were hidden from the good man, for he 
neither saw nor knew that about him stood so fair a company. 

This marvel the Abbot and his monk saw at least four times, and thus 
at each Hour came the Mother of God with aid and succour for her man. 
Never doth she fail her servants in their need. Great joy had the Abbot 
that this thing was made plain to him. 

Thus time went and returned, till it chanced that in a little while 
the Abbot sent for him who was so filled with virtue. When he heard 
that he was bidden of the Abbot, his heart was sore with grief, for he 
could think of nothing profitable to say. He came before the Abbot, 
with the tears yet wet upon his cheeks, and he was still weeping when 
he knelt upon the ground. "Lord," prayed he, "for the love of God 
deal not harshly with me. Would you send me from your door? Tell 
me what you would have me do, and thus it shall be done." Then re- 
plied the Abbot, "Answer me truly. Winter and summer have you lived 
here for a great space; now, tell me, what service have you given, and 
how have you deserved your bread?" "Alas!" said the tumbler, "well 
I knew that quickly I should be put upon the street when once this 



194 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

business was heard of you, and that you would keep me no more. Lord," 
said he, "I take my leave. Miserable I am, and miserable shall I ever 
be. Never yet have I made a penny for all my juggling.' ' But the Abbot 
answered, "Not so said I; but I ask and require of you — nay, more, by 
virtue of holy obedience I command you — to seek within your conscience 
and tell me truly by what craft you have furthered the business of our 
monastery." "Lord," cried he, "now have you slain me, for this com- 
mandment is a sword." Then he laid bare before the Abbot the story 
of his days, from the first thing to the last, whatsoever pain it cost him; 
not a word did he leave out, but he told it all without a pause, just as I 
have told you the tale. 

The holy Abbot leaned above him, and, all in tears, raised him up, 
kissing both his eyes. "Brother," said he, "hold now your peace, for I 
make with you this true covenant, that you shall ever be of our monastery. 
And now I pray you, my sweet friend, and lay this bidding upon you, 
without pretence, that you continue to do your service, even as you were 
wont heretofore — yea, and with greater craft yet, if so you may." " Lord, 
said he, "truly is this so?" "Yea," said the Abbot, "and verily." So 
he charged him, under peril of discipline, to put all doubts from his mind; 
for which reason the good man rejoiced so greatly that, as telleth the 
rhyme, he was all bemused, so that the blood left his cheeks, and his 
knees failed beneath him. When his courage came back, his very heart 
thrilled with joy; but so perilous was that quickening that therefrom 
he shortly died. But theretofore with a good heart he went about his 
service without rest, and Matins and Vespers, night and day, he missed 
no Hour till he became too sick to perform his office. So sore was his 
sickness upon him that he might not rise from his bed. 

The Abbot was in that cell with all his monks; there, too, was com- 
pany of many a priest and many a canon. These all humbly watched the 
dying man, and saw with open eyes this wonder happen. Clear to their 
very sight, about that lowly bed, stood the Mother of God, with angel 
and archangel, to wait the passing of his soul. Over against them were 
set, like wild beasts, devils and the Adversary, so they might snatch his 
spirit. I speak not to you in parable. But little profit had they for all 
their coming, their waiting, and their straining on the leash. Never 
might they have part in such a soul as his. When the soul took leave 
of his body, it fell not in their hands at all, for the Mother of God gathered 
it to her bosom, and the holy angels thronging round, quired for joy, as 
the bright train swept to Heaven with its burthen, according to the will 
of God. 

Here endeth the Tumbler of Our Lady. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 193 

It would have been impossible for the century that brought 
to pass the Reformation and in which the Renaissance was 
beginning to show its power to make other than a marked 
impress on the stage. Dramatic representations became 
more popular than ever and the actor's profession so desirable 
that corporations of actors and authors were formed. The 
subjects allowed for presentation were, however, restricted 
by the religious feeling which began to see a breach of good 
taste if not of verity in the offering of sacred beings, even of 
God himself, to the profane gaze, and in the telling of holy 
stories in a tone not always reverential. 

One of the companies which gave its energies to the pro- 
duction of comic pieces usually full of local allusions and 
timely hits was called the ' Care-free Children ' or ' Fools ' 
('Sots') — their productions, 'fooleries' ('soties'). The best 
soties were by Pierre Gringore, quoted elsewhere. 

Most of the dramas of this time were long, without com- 
pactness and written in very poor verse. The religious themes 
dared not be lively; the soties and the farces, however, satirize 
the life of the time in illuminating fashion. Already that 
most popular of all subjects, domestic infelicity, was frequent. 
Again the moralities flourished, not far distant in subject 
from the social sotie. 

Best of all the century's production is the farce, "Lawyer 
Pathelin," which had a great vogue for a hundred years and 
more. The first scene discloses the poorly-furnished house 
of Pathelin with the lawyer and his wife Guillemette lament- 
ing their poverty. 

Pathelin. Holy Mary! I toil and I cheat: 

Fair play and foul; by work and deceit: 

And yet 'tis certain, my Guillemette, 

Whatever I do, no richer we get. 
Guillemette. Yes: and what's worse, the neighbours aver, 

You are not so wise, by half, as you were: 



1 96 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

You that everyone used to seek — 
So crafty, so cunning, so clever to speak — 
Wait now, neglected by all the folk, 
And they call you the "Advocate under the oak." * 
Pathelin. Yet — I say it in sorrow, not pride — 
There is not through all the country side, 
In learning and wit a man my compare — 
Always excepting his Worship the Mayor. 

Guillemette. And if you are learned, where is the good? 
The larder is empty; we have no food. 
Look at our clothes, they are all in rags: 
When will your wisdom replenish your bags? 

Possessed of a brilliant idea Pathelin, in scene two, visits 
the shop of the draper, at the fair. Before taking up the real 
business of his call he ingratiates himself with the tradesman 
by inquiring about his relatives. 

Ha! — well. What a man! what a wonderful brain! 

God keep his soul — your father's, I mean. 

What a merchant, too, so thoughtful, so wise, 

(Upon my word, you have the same eyes). 

If God have mercy on any, why then 

He surely will pity your father. 
Draper. Amen. 
Pathelin. Dear, dear — a hundred times, ay, more, — 

Truly and fully he told me before, 

The times that were coming, the very events: 

Even then he was reckoned . . . 
Draper. Sir, no offence: 

Forgive my rudeness — be seated, I pray. 
Pathelin. I do very well as I am, but . . . 
Draper. Nay — 

Be seated, I beg you. 
Pathelin. To please you — ah, well! 

None other than marvels he used to foretell. 

You'll see when I tell you — Good Heavens ! 'tis strange, 

From father to son I perceive no change. 

His father exactly, the eyes and the nose, 

* "Avocat sous Vorme" i. e. one whose only office was the shade of the elm in the vil- 
lage square. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 197 

The very same dimples the same lips disclose: 

Hard set for a quarrel he'd be, in truth, 

Who would dare to maintain that you, forsooth, 

Are not your own father's son. That nature 

So should imitate every feature 

Is passing wondrous — so we are made — 

Your aunt Laurentia — is she yet dead? 
Draper. No. 
Pathelin. I am glad: ah! she was a belle, 

Tall and graceful; just your shape, well — 

In all the country, search it over — 

Such a race as yours 'twere hard to discover. 

The more I see you, the more I recall 

The face of your father — God rest his soul! 

Two drops of water are not more alike. 

How brave he was — so ready to strike! 

How worthy a creature — so glad to lend 

His money to any deserving friend. 

And how he laughed ! all out of his heart. 

Would that the worst man in this part 

Only resembled him. My brother, 

We shouldn't then be cheating each other 

As we do now {Takes up a piece of cloth.) 

What capital cloth! 

I never saw stuff so soft and smooth. 
Draper. From my own sheep's wool that cloth is made. 
Pathelin. Is it? How clever he is at his trade! 
Draper. Well, one must labour if one would thrive. 
Pathelin. 'Tis true, most true. As I'm alive, 

I cannot resist this beautiful stuff, 

I came not to buy — but there, enough. 

Eighty crowns I had laid aside 

For another purpose; but now, if I tried 

I could not avoid leaving twenty with you. 

I must have a coat, and my Guillemette, too, 

She shall have a gown. The longer I gaze, 

The more I like it. 
Draper. Just as you please, 

Only this cloth is as dear as cream, 

Twenty francs will go like a dream. 
Pathelin. I don't care, let it cost what it will. 



198 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

To save the draper the trouble of delivering his goods 
Pathelin puts the cloth under his arm and goes home to work 
out the rest of his scheme while William chuckles over the 
unduly large price that he has charged. 

Guillemette, in scene three, agrees to enter into her hus- 
band's plan, and Pathelin goes to bed. When the draper 
arrives the lawyer is apparently in a state of delirium and 
his wife insists so vehemently that he has not left the house 
for eleven weeks that William is persuaded that he must 
have dreamed the whole transaction. Yet after he has 
measured his cloth and found six ells missing he returns, only 
to find Pathelin raving so gloriously in a generous variety of 
dialects that the draper believes that he is at the point of 
death and that his own deception is an act of the Devil. 

The second act brings retribution upon the lawyer. The 
draper hales into court his shepherd, Thibault Aignelet, who 
has been killing his sheep for years. The shepherd engages 
Pathelin to defend him and that ingenious worthy advises 
him to play the imbecile and bleat a reply to every question. 
This device is aided unconsciously by the draper who so 
frequently rambles off into confused talk about the theft of 
his cloth that the judge repeatedly tells him to "return to 
his sheep" in the phrase of the famous proverb, "revenons A 
nos moutons" and at last pronounces against him. Pathelin 
plumes himself upon the successful conduct of the case, but 
when he tries to collect his fee from the shepherd he is met by 
the imbecile "Baa" which Thibault was bright enough to 
bring to bear upon more than one situation. 

Pathelin. Now, Aignelet, is your business done? 

Aignelet. Bee. 

Pathelin. The cause is finished; the judge is gone: 

Don't say bee any more, my friend. 

Did I not counsel you well to the end? 

Did I not play him a turn, eh? 
Aignelet. Bee. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 199 

Pathelin. There: there: no one will hear you. Say, 

Speak out plainly: don't be afraid. 
Aignelet. Bee. 

Pathelin. 'Tis time for me to be paid. 
Aignelet. Bee. 
Pathelin. Very well you have played your part, 

Your grave face went to the judge's heart. 
Aignelet. Bee. 
Pathelin. Don't say that any more, I beseech. 

Pay me now. 
Aignelet. Bee. 

Pathelin. Recover speech. 

Pay me at once and let me go. 
Aignelet. Bee. 
Pathelin. No more beeing. That will do. 

I don't like trifling. Pay me my fee. 
Aignelet. Bee. 
Pathelin. You mean to mock me? you mock me ? 

I swear you shall pay me at once — Here! — Give. 
Aignelet. Bee. 
Pathelin. You dare laugh at me? {aside) As I live, 

Tis all I am likely to get. 

My friend, if you bee to gratify 

Yourself, pray say so — but think that I 

Would rather not talk more. But come, 

Will you take your supper with me at home? 
Aignelet. B6e. 
Pathelin. By St. John, he bee's at his ease. 

For once the goslings lead the geese. 

{Aside) Now I thought myself the king of all cheats: * 

Doctor in quibbles, prince of deceits, 

Giver of words and bonds to pay, 

To be redeemed — on Judgment-day — 

And a simple rustic defeats my claims. 

The drama of the sixteenth century is of marked medioc- 
rity. Its only notability is its reflection of the Italian spirit 
which introduced subjects borrowed from antiquity and 
treatment beloved by antiquity, and bound itself by classical 



200 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

rules. Titles sound like a roster of Greek and Roman plays, 
composition follows the ancient mingling of declamation and 
chorus, and construction is according to the rules which 
were laid down centuries before in Horace's "Ars Poetica." 
The poets of the Pleiade did their lyric best for drama, 
Alexander Hardy in the early seventeenth century provided 
all sorts of plays in unstinted quantity, and at last Pierre 
Corneille ( 1 606-1 684) hung the already established classic 
forms with the swelling rhetoric of an abundant genius. The 
power of the will in its ability to initiate great actions is the 
basic motive of all Corneille's tragedies. Of these the "Cid" 
has been the most admired. 

The classical drama furnishes the typical form of dramatic 
construction. A play may be built upon the same simple 
specifications as is "CEdipus Tyrannus" or it may show the 
mixed motive and the complexity of "Hernani," but the 
frame- work is the same. The type calls for five acts: Act I, 
Introduction; Act II, Rising Action; Act III, Climax; Act IV, 
Falling Action; Act V, Catastrophe. The first act, besides 
performing the various offices of an introduction, holds the 
Exciting Cause and the Exciting Force. The turning point 
between the Rising and Falling Actions, the Climax, is found 
in the third act. The Tragic Force initiates the Falling Action 
as the Exciting Force does the Rising Action. The Force of 
Final Suspense affords a relief scene before the Catastrophe. 

Corneille's "Cid," while not absolutely regular, is, never- 
theless, an illuminating example of structure. Its analysis 
will illustrate the above definitions, and will also give an 
idea of its merits. 

Act I, Introduction. The purposes of dramatic introduc- 
tion are five-fold. It must put the audience (1) in possession 
of the environment of the play, (2) of the causes of the action, 
and (3) of the emotional mood of the piece; it must (4) fore- 
shadow the progress of the action, and it must (5) present 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 201 

the characters, either actually or by hearsay. All these ex- 
pectations are fulfilled in this play whose beautiful versifica- 
tion gave rise to the saying, " Beautiful as the ' Cid.' " Here 
is the story of the first act. Chimene, the heroine, has two 
suitors, Rodrigue (afterwards called the Cid) and Sanche. 
She loves Rodrigue, whose suit is looked upon favorably 
by her father, Don Gomez. Unfortunately for the smooth 
course of true love the King chooses as his son's governor 
Don Diego, Rodrigue's father, instead of Don Gomez, and 
the disappointed Count quarrels with his former friend and 
strikes him. Don Diego is too old to avenge the insult per- 
sonally, and Rodrigue finds himself in the position of being 
obliged to vindicate his father's honor upon the person of the 
father of the girl he loves. 

(1) Environment. That the setting of the piece is amid 
the jealousies and love intrigues of the court, with honor and 
passion and jealousy of the Spanish stamp, and with temper 
close to the skin, is made clear long before the act closes. 

(2) Causes. With admirable promptness, too, by means 
of that useful person, the confidante, the relations existing 
between Chimene and Rodrigue, and Don Gomez's attitude 
toward the lovers is brought out in the four lines that begin 
the first act. 

Chimene. Elvire, have you given me a really true report? You are 

hiding nothing of what my father said? 
Elvire. I am delighted with his attitude; he esteems Rodrigo as highly 

as you love him. 

The rival suitor, Don Sanche, is mentioned in the fourteenth 
line, and Don Gomez's expectations with regard to the young 
Prince are made clear before fifty lines have fallen on the ear. 
Exciting Cause and Exciting Force. The quarrel between 
the two fathers resulting upon the king's choice of a tutor for 
his son contains the Exciting Cause, which is the origin of 



202 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

the action of the play. This Exciting Cause is the blow given 
by Don Gomez to Don Diego. 

Count de Gormes (Chimene's father). You have carried off the prize that 

I deserved. 
Don Diego (Rodrigue's father). He who won the prize deserved it most. 
The Count. He who can use it best is most worthy of it. 
Don Diego. To be refused it is not a good sign of worthiness. 
The Count. You are an old courtier and won it by intrigue. 
Don Diego. The brilliancy of my noble deeds was my only advocate. 
The Count. Let us rather say that the king pays honor to your age. 
Don Diego. He is more in the habit of honoring courage. 
The Count. For which reason the honor was all the more due to me. 
Don Diego. He who failed to receive it did not deserve it. 
The Count. Did not deserve it? I ! 
Don Diego. You. 
The Count. Your impudence, rash old man, shall have its reward (He 

strikes him in the face). 

The Exciting Force is Rodrigue's resolution to avenge his 
father, even at the expense of his love — an act of will that 
sets the action into motion. In the course of a long soliloquy 
Rodrigue says: 

What bitter conflict do I feel! My love strives against my honor. I 
must avenge my father and lose the lady of my love. The one thought 
stirs my heart, the other restrains my arm. Reduced to the sad choice 
of betraying my love or living in infamy my lot is made as wretched by 
one decision as by the other. Ah, Heaven, how strange a difficulty con- 
fronts me? Must I let an insult pass unpunished? Must I punish Chi- 
mene's father? 

He comes to the conclusion that in either case he will lose 
Chimene for she will despise him if he fails to avenge the 
slight put upon the honor of his house, and hate him if he 
enters into combat with her father. And then he makes the 
crucial decision: "Let us hasten to vengeance." 

(3) Emotional Note. In the "Cid" Corneille manipulates 
with a master's skill the spiritual contest that seems to have 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 203 

made the strongest appeal to him — the struggle between love 
and duty, between primitive passion and natural obligation. 
This note is struck in a secondary expression of the theme by 
the Infanta, who loves Rodrigue, yet feels that the demands 
of her exalted position do not permit her entertaining an 
affection for him. It bursts out in full emotional sweep when 
Rodrigue in impassioned verse weighs the cry of his heart 
against the call of his honor. 

Father, mistress, honor, love! Noble yet harsh alternative, beloved 
bondage; either my happiness is dead or my honor is sullied; one makes 
me wretched, the other makes me unworthy of life. 

(4) Dramatic Foreshadowing. Full of suggestion is the 
line "Let us hasten to vengeance," for it foreshadows the 
hero's purpose and connotes a wide field of possibilities. 

(5) Presentation of the Characters. The last duty of the 
introduction — to present the important characters of the 
play to the audience — this first act performs. Of the twelve 
actors in the cast, eight appear. Of the other four, two, 
Sanche and the King, are mentioned. It is only two unim- 
portant characters, noblemen of the Court, who are not 
touched. 

Rising Action. The Rising Action of a drama begins as 
soon as the hero has made the resolution that is the Exciting 
Force, and it extends to the Climax, which should be some- 
where in the last half of the third act. The interest should 
be progressive and the opposing forces must be introduced. 
Here is the way in which Corneille complies with this re- 
quirement in 

Acts II and III. Even the solicitations of the King fail to 
persuade Don Gomez to apologize for the insult he has in- 
flicted upon his former friend, and a quarrel between him and 
Rodrigue is a necessary consequence. In the duel that follows 
Rodrigue kills his sweetheart's father. Chimene demands 



204 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

vengeance from the King, even to Rodrigue's head, for now 
comes her struggle between her love and what she considers 
her duty. 

Climax, In a scene of wonderful power which Sainte-Beuve 
calls the finest in Corneille, both hero and heroine reach an 
emotional climax. Rodrigue begs Chimene to kill him with 
the sword that had slain her father. Chimene's love cannot 
make this Spartan sacrifice to vengeance, but she has de- 
clared her purpose toward Rodrigue to be: 

To support my self-respect and end my misery, to pursue him, to 
destroy him — and then to die after him. 

Even this brief outline will show that the interest is pro- 
gressive, rising as it does, from the quarrel to the murder, and 
then turning from the external to the always greater soul 
interest, the struggle between the opposing forces of passion- 
ate love and the call of duty as it touches the preservation 
of the family honor. The height of the Climax lies in the 
lovers' common cry of purpose and of renunciation! 

Rodrigue. Farewell. I go to drag out a miserable life until such time 

as your pursuit shall deprive me of it. 
Chimene. If I gain my end I pledge you my faith to live not a moment 

after you. 

Tragic Force. The Falling Action must be set in motion by 
the Tragic Force. This Force, like the Exciting Force is an 
act of volition on the part of the death-seeking hero. It 
comes toward the end of the third act when Rodrigue says, 
"Unable to leave Chimene nor yet to win her the death 
which I seek is a more welcome suffering." 

Rodrigue is urged by his father at least to make his death 
glorious by falling in defense of his people and his King. He 
determines to lead a band against the Moors who have boldly 
approached the city. 

Act IV. Falling Action. The Falling Action is the out- 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 205 

come of the Rising Action and is its counter-part in leading 
up to the Catastrophe, as the Rising Action leads to the 
Climax. The Falling Action of the "Cid" deals with Rod- 
riguez defeat of the invaders in a fight that does not bring 
him his wished-for death. Chimene is proud of his valor but 
is unappeased and demands that he be forced to meet a 
champion, to whom she promises her hand if he conquers 
Rodrigue. The King, however, decrees that she shall marry 
the victor, whichever he be. 

Act V. In the fifth act Rodrigue comes to say farewell to 
Chimene, meaning to make no contest against her defender, 

Don Sanche. 

I go to death and not to combat. 

But Chimene, repenting her of her promise, implores him to 

fight. 

Defend yourself, and take me from Don Sanche 

and begs 

Be the victor in this contest whose prize is Chim&ne. 

Final Suspense. The " Force of Final Suspense" is applied 
in a relief scene before the catastrophe. Don Sanche brings 
to Chimene a dripping sword, and she thinks that he has 
killed Rodrigue. Frantic she claims from the King the 
privilege of withdrawing to a convent where she may mourn 
her love sacrificed to her duty. 

Catastrophe. But Rodrigue is not dead, and the King 
insists upon the fulfilment of his decree — upon the betrothal 
of Chimene and Rodrigue. This is not a typical Catastrophe, 
for that would have demanded a sad ending as a logical con- 
clusion. 

The "unities" of time, place, and circumstance whose 
laws were laid down by Aristotle, demanded that the events 
of a tragedy should be limited to what might happen in 
twenty-four hours, that the scene should be laid in but one 



2o6 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

place, and that the action should hold but one catastrophe. 
The nature of the theme of the " Cid" made the strict follow- 
ing of these rules a heavy tax on the hearers' sense of prob- 
ability. That Rodrigue should step from battle into single 
combat with Sanche after a rest of but an hour or two, and, 
when he won, that Chimene should be betrothed by royal 
command to the slayer of her father within twenty-four hours 
after his death was crowding events to say the least. The law 
of place was more closely followed, for the scenes are all in 
Seville, but they were not strictly in accordance with custom 
for they called on the imagination to see different spots which 
would be represented on the modern stage by changes of 
scenery. Singleness of action came nearer to accomplishment. 

Corneille was put in the position of being forced to defend 
himself against the critics who regarded his construction as 
loose, but it is evident that he tried to reconcile the demands 
of what was really a romantic plot with what was considered 
correct at the moment. His later work shows even greater 
obedience to the laws. 

The production of the "Cid" created much feeling which 
was fostered by Richelieu, who was either jealous of his suc- 
cess or else did not approve some of the feudal ideas of the 
play. The drama won the people, however; in it Corneille, 
who had been trying his hand on comedies and other literary 
forms for several years, found his real bent, and by it he es- 
tablished a reputation as one of France's greatest dramatic 
poets, which was enhanced by every one of his later produc- 
tions. 

French criticism has long wavered between the claims of 
Corneille and of Racine to wear the laurels of the nation's 
greatest writer of tragedy. At one time Corneille has been 
favored, at another Racine. Possibly the more intimate 
personal revelations of Racine's characters rouse feelings of 
friendliness which are somewhat chilled by the grand struggles 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 207 

of the older poet. His psychology studies the action of 
various passions — love, ambition, hatred — upon the individ- 
ual. Jean Racine (1639-1699) was a man of court position 
who had been a pupil at Port Royal. His style is luminous, 
his thought aspiring, his technique exact according to class- 
ical rules. After many early successes one of his plays was 
not received enthusiastically, thanks to the schemes of his 
enemies, and he was so wounded by what he thought was the 
public coldness that for many years he wrote nothing. At 
last Madame de Maintenon induced him to break his silence 
and compose a play to be acted by the girls at Saint-Cyr. 
The result was "Esther" and this was followed by " Athalie," 
written for the same performers and pronounced the best of 
all the great dramatist's list. 

* ATHALIAH 

CHARACTERS 

Joash, King of Judak and Son of Ahaziah. 

Athaliah, Widow of Joram, and Grandmother of Joash. 

Jehoiada, the High Priest. 

Jehosheba, Aunt of Joash, and Wife of the High Priest. , 

Zachariah, Son of Jehoiada and Jehosheba. 

Salome, Sister of Zachariah. 

Abner, one of the Chief Officers of the Kings of Judah. 

Azariah, Ishmael, and the three other Chiefs of the Priests and Levites. 

Mattan, an Apostate priest; Chief Priest of Baal. 

Nabal, confidential Friend of Mattan. 

Hagar, an Attendant of Athaliah. 

Band of Priests and Levites. 

Attendants of Athaliah. 

Nurse of Joash. 

Chorus of young Maidens of the Tribe of Levi. 

The scene is laid in the Temple at Jerusalem, in an ante-chambeF of the High Priest's 
dwelling. 

ACT I 

Scene 1 



Yea, to the Temple of the Lord I come, 

To worship with the solemn rites of old, 

To celebrate with thee the famous day 

When from the holy mount our Law was giv'n. 

* Abridged from translation by R. Bruce Boswell. Courtesy of The Macmillan Company. 



208 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

How times are changed! Soon as the sacred trump 
With joyous blast announced this day's return, 
The Temple porticoes, with garlands gay, 
Could not contain the crowds of the devout; 
Before the altar they in order due, 
Bringing the earliest harvest of their fields, 
Offered those firstfruits to the Lord of all; 
Nor were there priests enough for sacrifice. 

A woman's will has dared to check these throngs, 

And turn'd the day's bright glory into gloom. 

Scarce dare a few most zealous worshippers 

Recall for us some shadow of the past; 

The rest are all forgetful of their God, 

Or, e'en to Baal's altars flocking now, 

In shameful orgies learn to bear their part, 

And curse the Name on which their fathers call'd. 

My soul is troubled, — naught will I conceal — 

Lest Athaliah visit upon thee 

Her vengeance, spurn all remnant of respect, 

And tear thee from the altar of the Lord. 

Abner fears that Athalie will destroy the temple and put to death the 
high priest. 

JEHOIADA 

He who enchains the fury of the waves 
Knows how to curb the plots of wicked men. 
Submitting humbly to His holy will, 
I fear my God, and know no other fear. 
And yet, I thank thee, Abner, for thy zeal 
That o'er my peril keeps a watchful eye. 

Abner should not complain but should act. To Abner's objection 
reply is made by Jehoiada. 

JEHOIADA 

Yet when did miracles abound as now? 

When by more signs has God display'd His power? 

Abner replies that there is no longer hope since the race of David is 
extinguished. Jehoiada bids him hope and come back to the temple a 
little later. 

Scene 2 

Jehoiada tells Jehosheba that the day has come to proclaim Joash King 
of the Jews. Jehosheba tells how she saved him before. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Ah! his sad state when Heaven gave him me 
Returns each moment to alarm my soul. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 209 

With slaughter'd princes was the chamber full; 
Dagger in hand, th' inexorable Queen 
To bloodshed urged her barbarous soldiery. 
And eagerly her murderous course pursued! 
Young Joash, left for dead, there met my eyes; 
I seem to see his terror-stricken nurse 
Still vainly crouching at the assassin's feet, 
His drooping form clasp'd to her feeble breast. 
I took him stain'd with blood. Bathing his face 
My copious tears restored his vanish'd sense. 
And, whether yet with fear or fond caress, 
I felt the pressure of his tender arms. 
Great God, forbid my love should be his bane. 

She weeps as she thinks of the danger he is yet to run. Jehoiada re- 
assures her. 

JEHOIADA 

All that remains of faithful Israel still 
Will come to-day here to renew their vows; 
Deep as their reverence for David's race, 
They hold abhorr'd the child of Jezebel; 
Joash will move them with his modest grace, 
Great God, if Thy foreknowledge sees him base, 
Bent to forsake the paths that David trod, 
Then let him be like fruit ere ripeness pluck'd 
Or flower wither'd by a noisome blast! 
But if this child, obedient to Thy will, 
Is destined to advance Thy wise designs, 
Now let the rightful heir the sceptre sway, 
Give to my feeble hands his pow'rful foes, 
And baffle in her plots a cruel Queen. 

He departs, bidding the choir sing. 

Scene 4 

ALL THE CHORUS SINGS 

His glory fills the universe sublime, 
Lift to this God for aye the voice of prayer! 
He reign'd supreme before the birth of Time; 
Sing of His loving care. 

one voice {alone) 

Vainly unrighteous force 
Would still His people's praise that must have course; 

His Name shall perish ne'er. 
Day tells to day His pow'r, from time to time; 
His glory fills the universe sublime; 

Sing of His loving care. 



2io THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

ALL THE CHORUS REPEATS 

His glory fills the universe sublime; 
Sing of His loving care. 

one voice {alone) 

He paints the flow'rs with all their lovely hues; 

The fruit to ripeness grows, 

For daily He bestows 
The day's warm sunshine, and the night's cool dews, 
Nor does the grateful earth t' o'erpay the debt refuse. 

ANOTHER VOICE 

The sun at His command spreads joy around, 

'Tis from His bounteous hand its light proceeds; 
But in His Law, so pure, so holy found, 

We hail His richest gift to meet our needs. 

ACT II 

Scene 2 
The songs are interrupted by the arrival of Zachariah who brings 
serious news. 

ZACHARIAH 

My father, the High Priest, with all due rites 
Presented to the Lord, Who feeds mankind, 
The first loaves of the harvest we have reap'd, 
And then, while offering with blood-stain'd hands 
The smoking inwards of the victims slain; 
And, standing by his side, Eliakim 
Help'd me to serve him, clad in linen stole; 
While with the blood of sacrifice the priests 
Sprinkled the altar and the worshippers; 
There rose a tumult, and the people turn'd, 
Sudden astonishment in every eye. 
A woman — is to name her blasphemy? — 
A woman — it was Athaliah's self. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Great Heav'n! 

ZACHARIAH 

Within the court reserved for men 
This woman enters with uplifted brow, 
Yea, and attempts to pass the limit set, 
Where none but Levites have a right to come. 
The people fly, all scatter 'd in dismay; 
My father — ah, what wrath blazed from his eyes! 
Moses to Pharaoh seem'd less terrible, — 
"Go, Queen," my father said, "and leave this place, 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 211 

Bann'd to thy sex and thine impiety! 

Comest to brave the majesty of God?" 

And then the Queen, fiercely confronting him, 

Seem'd as in act to utter blasphemies; 

I know not if the Angel of the Lord 

Appear'd before her with a glittering sword, 

But straight her tongue seem'd frozen in her mouth, 

And all her boldness utterly abash'd; 

She could not move her eyes, in terror fix'd 

And strange surprise on young Eliakim. 

JEHOSHEBA 

What! Did he stand there in her very sight? 

ZACHARIAH 

We both stood gazing on that cruel Queen, 
Stricken with equal horror at our hearts; 
But soon the priests encompassed us around, 
And forced us to withdraw. I came to thee, 
To tell the outrage done; I know no more. 

Scenes 4 and 5 
Athaliah stops in the vestibule of the Temple and enters with explana- 
tions with Abner and Mattan. 

ATHALIAH 

I do not wish now to recall the past, 
Nor give account to you for blood I shed. 
A sense of duty prompted all my acts. 
Nor will I take for judge a hasty crowd; 
Whate'er they may presume to spread abroad, 
My vindication Heav'n has made its care. 
My pow'r, established on renown'd success, 
Has magnified my name from sea to sea; 

But for some days a gnawing care has come, 
To check the flood of my prosperity. 
A dream (why should a dream disquiet me?) 
Preys on my heart, and keeps it ill at ease; 
I try to banish it; it haunts me still. 

'Twas deepest night, when horror falls on man, 
My mother Jezebel before me stood, 
Richly attired as on the day she died, 

"Tremble," she said, "child worthy of myself; 
O'er thee too triumphs Judah's cruel god, 
And thou must fall into his dreadful hands, 
Whereat I grieve." With these alarming words, 
Her spectre o'er my bed appear'd to bend; 
I stretch'd my hands to clasp her; but I found 
Only a hideous mass of flesh and bones, 



212 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Horribly bruised and mangled, dragg'd thro' mire, 
Bleeding and torn, whose limbs the dogs of prey 
Were growling over with devouring greed. 

ABNER 

Great God! 

ATHALIAH 

While thus disturb'd, before me rose 
The vision of a boy in shining robe, 
Such as the Hebrew priests are wont to wear. 
My drooping spirits at his sight revived: 
But while my troubled eyes, to peace restored, 
Admired his noble air and modest grace, 
I felt the sudden stroke of murderous steel 
Plunged deeply by the traitor in my breast. 
Perhaps to you this dream, so strangely mix'd, 
May seem a work of chance, and I myself, 
For long ashamed to let my fears prevail, 
Referr'd it to a melancholy mood; 
But while its memory linger'd in my soul, 
Twice in my sleep I saw that form again, 
Twice the same child before my eyes appear'd, 
Always about to stab me to the heart. 

Worn out at last by horror's close pursuit, 
I went to claim Baal's protecting care, 
And, kneeling at his altars, find repose. 
How strangely fear may sway our mortal minds! 
And instinct seem'd to drive me to these courts, 
To pacify the god whom Jews adore; 
I thought that offerings might appease his wrath, 
That this their god might grow more merciful. 
Baal's High Priest, my feebleness forgive! 
I enter'd; and the sacrifice was stay'd, 
The people fled, Jehoiada in wrath 
Advanced to meet me. As he spake, I saw 
With terror and surprise that self-same boy 
Who haunts me in my dreams. I saw him there; 
His mien the same, the same his linen stole, 
His gait, his eyes, each feature of his face; 
It was himself; beside th' High Priest he walk'd, 
Till quickly they removed him from my sight. 

That is the trouble which detains me here, 
And thereon would I fain consult you both. 
Mattan, what means this omen marvellous? 

MATTAN 

Coincidence so strange fills me with dread. 

ATHALIAH 

But, Abner, hast thou seen this fatal child? 
Who is he? What his family, his tribe? 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 213 



Two children at the altar lend their aid, 
One is the High Priest's son, the other is 
To me unknown. 

MATTAN 

Why hesitate to act? 
Your Majesty must needs secure them both. 



Abner makes objections and Mattan replies- 



Enough for fear! I have considered all. 
If from illustrious parentage he springs, 
His ruin should be hasten'd by his rank; 
If fate has placed him in a lot obscure, 
What matters it if worthless blood be spilt ? 

Scene 6 
Athaliah orders Abner to go and seek the two children whom she has 
seen. Joash arrives accompanied by Jehosheba. 

Scene 7 

ATHALIAH 

Heav'ns! the more closely I examine him, — 
'Tis he ! And horror seizes me again. 

{pointing to Joash) 

Wife of Jehoiada, is this thy son? 



He, Madam? 

He. 

There is my son. 
Answer, thyself. 



jehosheba 
athaliah 

jehosheba 
His mother? No, not I. 
{pointing to Zachariah.) 

ATHALIAH {to JOASH) 

Who is thy father, child? 

JEHOSHEBA 

Heav'n till this very day— 



214 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 



ATHALIAH 

Why in such haste to answer for the boy? 
It is for him to speak. 

jehosheba (aside) 
Great God, put now Thy wisdom in his mouth! 

ATHALIAH 

What is thy name? 

JOASH 

My name's Eliakim. 

ATHALIAH 

Thy father? 

JOASH 

Fatherless, they say, I am, 
Cast since my birth upon the arms of God; 
I never knew my parents, who they were. 

ATHALIAH 

Hast thou no parents? 

JOASH 

They abandon'd me. 

ATHALIAH 

How? and how long ago? 

JOASH 

When I was born. 

ATHALIAH 

Where is thy home? This can at least be told. 

JOASH 

This Temple is my home; none else I know. 

ATHALIAH 

Where wast thou found? Hast thou been told of that? 

JOASH 

'Midst cruel wolves, ready to-eat me up. 

ATHALIAH 

Who placed thee in this temple? 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 215 

JOASH 

One unknown, 
She gave no name, nor was she seen again. 

ATHALIAH 

New wonder comes to trouble and perplex! 
The sweetness of his voice, his infant grace 
Unconsciously make enmity give way 
To — can it be compassion that I feel! 



Madam, is this thy dreaded enemy? 
'Tis evident thy dreams have played thee false; 
Unless thy pity, which now seems to vex, 
Should be the fatal blow that terrified. 

athaliah {to Joash and Jehosheba) 
Why are ye leaving? 

JEHOSHEBA 

Thou hast heard his tale: 
His presence longer might be troublesome. 

ATHALIAH (to JOASH) 

Nay, child, come back. What dost thou all the day? 

JOASH 

I worship God, and hear His Law explain'd; 

ATHALIAH 

What says that Law? 

JOASH 

That God requires our love. 

ATHALIAH 

I understand. But all within these walls, 
How are they occupied? 

JOASH 

In praising God. 

ATHALIAH 

What pleasures hast thou? 



216 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

JOASH 

Where God's altar stands, 
I sometimes help th' High Priest to offer salt 
Or incense, hear His lofty praises sung, 
And see His stately ritual perform'd. 

ATHALIAH 

What! Hast thou pastime none more sweet than that? 
Sad lot for one so young; but come with me, 
And see my palace and my splendour there. 

JOASH 

God's goodness then would from my memory fade. 

ATHALIAH 

I serve my god: and thou shalt worship thine. 
There are two powerful gods. 

JOASH 

Thou must fear mine; 
He only is the Lord, and thine is naught. 

ATHALIAH 

Pleasures untold will I provide for thee. 

JOASH 

The happiness of sinners melts away. 

ATHALIAH 

Of sinners, who are they? 

JEHOSHEBA 

Madam, excuse 
A child— 

ATHALIAH 

I like to see how ye have taught him; 
And thou hast pleased me well, Eliakim, 
Being, and that past doubt, no common child. 
See thou, I am a queen, and have no heir; 
Forsake this humble service, doff this garb, 
And I will let thee share in all my wealth; 
Make trial of my promise from this day; 
Beside me at my table, everywhere, 
Thou shalt receive the treatment of a son. 

JOASH 

A son! 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 217 

ATHALIAH 

Yes, speak. 

JOASH 

And such a Father leave 
For— 

ATHALIAH 

Well, what? 

JOASH 

Such a mother as thyself! 

ATHALIAH (to JEHOSHEBA.) 

His memory is good; in all he says 
I recognize the lessons ye have given. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Can our misfortunes be conceal'd from them? 

All the world knows them; are they not thy boast? 

ATHALIAH 

Yea; with just wrath, that I am proud to own, 
My parents on my offspring I avenged. 
Your god has vow'd implacable revenge; 
Snapt is the link between thine house and mine, 
David and all his offspring I abhor, 
Tho' born of mine own blood I own them not. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Thy plans have prospered. Let God see, and judge! 

ATHALIAH 

Your god, forsooth, your only refuge left, 
What will become of his predictions now? 
Let him present you with that promised King, 
That Son of David, waited for so long, — 
We meet again. Farewell. I go content: 
I wished to see, and I have seen. 

Scene 9 

CHORUS 
ONE OF THE MAIDENS FORMING THE CHORUS 

What star has burst upon our eyes? 
What shall this wondrous child become one day? 
Vain pomp and show he dares despise, 
Nor lets those charms, where danger lies, 
Lead his young feet from God astray. 



218 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 



ANOTHER VOICE 

While all to Baal's altar flock, 

And for the Queen their faith disown, 

A child proclaims that Israel's Rock 

Is the eternal God alone, 

And though this Jezebel may mock, 

Elijah's spirit he has shown. 

ANOTHER VOICE 

Who will the secret of thy birth explain? 
Dear child, some holy prophet lives in thee again! 

ACT III 

Scenes i and 2 

Mattan, at Athaliah's request, comes to the temple to speak to Je- 
hosheba. While waiting he converses with his friend. 



She has not been herself these two days past. 

No more is she the bold, clear sighted Queen, 

With spirit raised above her timid sex, 

Whose rapid action overwhelm'd her foes, 

Who knew the value of an instant lost: 

Fear and remorse disturb that lofty soul; 

She wavers, falters, all the woman now. 

Not long ago I fill'd with bitter wrath 

Her heart already moved by threats from Heav'n, 

"I have inquired," said I, " about that child, 

And hear strange boasts of royal ancestry, 

How to the malcontents, from time to time, 

The High Priest shows him, bids the Jews expect 

In him a second Moses, and supports 

His speech with lying oracles." These words 

Made her brow flush. Swiftly the falsehood work'd. 

"Is it for me," she said, "to pine in doubt? 

Let us be rid of this perplexity. 

Convey my sentence to Jehosheba: 

Soon shall the fire be kindled, and the sword 

Deal slaughter, soon their Temple shall be razed, 

Unless, as hostage for their loyalty, 

They yield this child to me." 

Scene 4 

Mattan tries to make Jehosheba admit Joash's identity. He is inter- 
rupted by the sudden entrance of Jehoiada crying. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 219 

MATT AN 

To rail is but to be Jehoiada ! 
Yet might he well, in reverence for the Queen, 
Show greater prudence, and forbear to insult 
The chosen envoy of her high command. 

JEHOIADA 

With what ill-omened tidings art thou charged? 
What dreadful mission brings such messenger? 

MATT AN 

Jehosheba has heard the royal will. 

JEHOIADA 

Then get thee from my presence, impious wretch; 
Go, and fill up the measure of thy crimes. 

mattan (in confusion) 

Ere the day close — which of us is to be — 
'Twill soon be seen — but, Xabal, let us go. 

Scene 6 

Jehosheba wishes to flee with Joash. Jehoiada reassures her, says that 
he is going to crown Joash publicly, summons the Levites and orders the 
Temple closed. He prophesies. 

JEHOIADA 

Lo, what avengers of Thy holy cause, 

O Wisdom infinite, — these priests and babes! 

But, Thou supporting, who can make them fall? 

Why throbs my heart with holy ecstasy? 
Is it God's Spirit thus takes hold of me, 
Glows in my breast, speaks, and unseals mine eyes? 
Before me spread dim distant ages rise. 
Ye Levites, let your melodies conspire 
To fan the flame of inspiration's fire. 

the chorus (singing to the accompaniment of musical instruments) 

Lord, by Thy voice to our dull ears conveyed, 
Thy holy message to our hearts be borne, 

As to the tender blade 
Comes, in the spring, the freshness of the morn! 

JEHOIADA 

Ye heavens hear my voice; thou earth give ear: 
That the Lord sleeps, no more let Israel fear: 
The Lord awakes! Ye sinners, disappear! 



220 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

(The music begins again, and Jehoiada immediately resumes) 

Weep, Salem; faithless city, weep in vain! 

Thy murderous hands have God's own prophets slain: 

The Lord the queen of cities hath discrown'd, 

Cast off her kings, her priests in fetters bound; 

Within her streets no festal throngs are found: 
The Temple falls! high leap the flames with cedar fed! 
Jerusalem, sad spectacle of woe, 

How in one day thy beauty disappears! 

Would that mine eyes might be a fount of tears, 
To weep thine overthrow! 

AZARIAH 

Oh, holy shrine! 

JEHOSHEBA 

Oh, David! 

THE CHORUS 

Lord, restore 
Favour to Thine own Zion, as of yore! 

(The music begins again, and Jehoiada, a moment afterwards, breaks in 

upon it) 

JEHOIADA 

What new Jerusalem is this draws nigh, 

With beams of light that from the desert shine? 

Jerusalem arise, lift up thine head! 
Thy glory fills with wonder all these kings, 
Each monarch of the earth his homage brings, 

Her mightiest kiss the dust where thou dost tread; 
All press to hail the light around thee shed. 
Blessed be he whose soul with ardour glows 
To see fair Zion rise! 
Drop down your dews, ye skies, 
And let the earth her Saviour now disclose! 

JEHOSHEBA 

Ah, whence may we expect a gift so rare, 

If those, from whom that Saviour is to spring, — 

JEHOIADA 

Prepare, Jehosheba, the royal crown, 
Which David wore upon his sacred brow: 

(To the Levites) 
And ye, to arm yourselves, come, follow me 
Where are kept hidden, far from eyes profane, 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 221 

That dread array of lances, and of swords, 

Which once were drench'd with proud Philistia's blood, 

And conquering David, full of years and fame, 

Devoted to the Lord who shelter'd him. 

Can we employ them for a nobler use? 

Come; and I will myself distribute them. 

ACT IV 

Jehoiada tells Joash that he is King and prepares him for the part 
he is to play. He presents him to the chiefs of the Levites from whom 
he demands an oath: 

JEHOIADA 

But I perceive your zeal already fired; 
Swear then upon this holy volume, first, 
Before this King whom Heav'n restores to-day, 
To live, to fight, yea, or to die for him! 

AZARIAH 

Here swear we, for ourselves and brethren all, 
To establish Joash on his fathers' throne, 
Nor, having taken in our hands the sword, 
To lay it down till we have slain his foes. 
If anyone of us should break this vow, 
Let him, great God, and let his children feel 
Thy vengeance, from Thine heritage shut out, 
And number 'd with the dead disown'd by Thee! 

JEHOIADA 

And thou, my King, wilt thou not swear to be 
Faithful to this eternal Law of God? 

JOASH 

How could I ever wish to disobey? 

JEHOIADA 

My son, — once more to call thee by that name, — 
Suffer this fondness, and forgive the tears 
Prompted by too well founded fears, for thee. 
Far from the throne, in ignorance brought up 
Of all the poisonous charms of royalty, 
Thou knowest not th' intoxicating fumes 
Of pow'r uncurb'd, and flattery's magic spells; 
Soon will she whisper that no holiest laws, 
Tho' governing the herd, must kings obey; 
Thus will fresh pitfalls for your feet be dug, 
New snares be spread to spoil your innocence, 



222 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Till they have made you hate the truth at last, 
By painting virtue in repulsive guise. 
Alas! our wisest king was led astray. 
Swear on this book, before these witnesses, 
That God shall be thy first and constant care; 
Rememb'ring how, in simple linen clad, 
Thou wast thyself a helpless orphan child. 

JOASH 

I promise to observe the Law's commands. 
If I forsake Thee, punish me, my God! 

Scene 5 

It is announced that Athaliah has surrounded the temple with her 
mercenaries. Jehoiada gives his last orders for its defence. 

ACT V 

Hardly has Joash been crowned in the temple when Abner enters, 
demanding in Athaliah's name the surrender of Joash and of the treasure 
of David. Jehoiada commands the entrance of Athaliah accompanied 
only by her chief Jewish officers. 

4 Scene 3 

JEHOIADA 

Great God! The hour is come that brings Thy prey! 
Hark, Ishmael. 

(He whispers in his ear) 

JEHOSHEBA 

Almighty King of Heav'n, 
Place a thick veil before her eyes once more, 
As when, making her crime of none effect, 
Thou in my bosom didst her victim hide. 

JEHOIADA 

Good Ishmael, go, there is no time to lose; 
Fulfil precisely this important task; 
And, above all, take heed, when she arrives 
And passes, that no threatening signs be seen. 
Children, for Joash be a throne prepared; 
Let our arm'd Levites on his steps attend. 
Princess, bring hither too his trusty nurse, 
And dry the copious fountain of thy tears. 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 223 

{To a Levite) 

Soon as the Queen, madly presumptuous, 
Has cross'd the threshold of the Temple gates, 
Let all retreat be made impossible; 
That very moment let the martial trump 
Wake sudden terror in the hostile camp : 
Call all the people to support their King, 
And make her ears ring with the wondrous tale 
Of Joash by God's providence preserved. 
He comes. 

Scene 4 

jehoiada continues 

Ye Levites, and ye priests of God, 
Range yourselves round, but do not show yourselves; 
Leave it to me to keep your zeal in check, 
And tarry till my voice bids you appear. 

{They all hide themselves) 

My King, me thinks this hope rewards thy vows; 
Come, see thy foes fall prostrate at thy feet. 
She who in fury sought thine infant life 
Comes hither in hot haste to slay thee now; 
But fear her not: think that upon our side 
Stands the destroying angel as thy guard. 
Ascend thy throne — The gates are opening wide; 
One moment let this curtain cover thee. 

{He draws a curtain) 



Scene 5 

Joash, Jehoiada, Jehosheba, Abner, Athaliah, and her Attendants 

(joash is hidden behind the curtain) 

ATHALIAH {to JEHOIADA) 

Deceiver, there thou art! 
Dost thou still lean upon thy god's support, 
Or has that flimsy trust forsaken thee? 
He leaves thee and thy temple in my pow'r. 
Well might I on the altar thou dost serve — 
But no, thine orler'd ransom shall suffice; 
Fulfil what thou hast promised. That young boy, 
That treasure which thou must to me resign, 
Where are they? 

JEHOIADA 

Straight shalt thou be satisfied: 
I am about to show them both at once. 



224 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

( The curtain is drawn up. Joash is discovered on his throne; his 
nurse is kneeling on his right; Azariah, sword in hand, is standing 
on his left; and near him Zachariah and Salome are kneeling 
on the steps of the throne; a number of Levites, with swords in 
their hands, are ranged on either side.) 

Appear, dear child, worthy of royal sires. 
Queen, dost thou recognize King David's heir? 
Observe at least these marks thy dagger left: 
Behold thine offspring, Ahaziah's son! 
Welcome King Joash, Abner, people all! 

ABNER 

Heav'ns! 

ATHALIAH 

Traitor! 

JEHOIADA 

See this faithful Jewess here, 
Whose bosom, as thou knowest, nursed him then. 
Saved from thy fury by Jehosheba, 
Within this temple God has guarded him. 
Lo, here is all of David's treasure left! 

ATHALIAH 

Traitor, thy fraud will but destroy the child: 
Rid me, my soldiers, of this vile pretence! 

JEHOIADA 

Soldiers of God, draw near, defend your King! 

{The back of the stage opens: the interior of the temple is shown; and 
armed Levites enter from all around upon the stage) 

ATHALIAH 

Treason! Oh, where am I, unhappy Queen! 
Weapons and enemies on every side! 

JEHOIADA 

Thy search is vain, thou canst not 'scape the toils 
Cast round thee by the God whom thou hast scorn'd. 

ATHALIAH 

My warriors are turn'd craven, numb with fear! 
Abner, is this thy coward's snare? 

ABNER 

My Queen, 

As God is witness — 



DRAMA THROUGH THE CENTURIES 225 

ATHALIAH 

Never mind thy god, 
Avenge me. 

abner (throwing himself at the feet of Joash) 
Upon whom? Joash? My prince? 

ATHALIAH 

He Joash! He thy King! Bethink you, knaves, 
That ye are still beleaguer 'd by my arms; 
I hear my soldiers call me with loud shouts. 
Tremble, ye rebels! Succour is at hand. 

Scene 6 

ISHMAEL (to JEHOIADA) 

My lord, our foes have left the Temple free: 
The foreigners are fled, the Jews submit. 
Our Levites, high above the courts around, 
Have Ahaziah's son to all proclaim'd, 
Told of his infant life saved from the sword, 
And Athaliah's fall into the snare. 
The trumpets sounded from all sides at once, 
And, mingled with their cries, such terror spread 
Throughout the camp as struck with wild dismay 
Proud Midian at the flash of Gideon's sword. 
Some Jews, in dazed confusion, shared their flight; 
The rest for Joash loudly have declared, 
Owning herein the guiding hand of God. 
Yea, all the people, with one heart inspired, 
Women, old men, and babes embrace with joy, 
Blessing Jehovah and the King He sends, 
And hymn the son of David raised to life. 
All in the holy city execrate 
The name of Baal, and destroy his shrine. 
Mattan is slain. 

ATHALIAH 

Jehovah, thou hast won! 
Yes, it is Joash. Vain denial now! 
'Twas here I gave command to have him slain; 
He has the mien and features of his sire; 
I trace his kinship with the line I hate. 
Thus David triumphs, Ahab is destroy'd. 
Relentless god, this is thy work alone, 
Well, let him reign, thy care and handiwork! 
And, to inaugurate his sovereignty, 
Bid him direct this dagger to my heart! 

She prophesies that Joash will one day become traitor to his religion; 
then she goes out followed by the Levites who slay her. 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION— THE 
EIGHTEENTH 

France began the eighteenth century with a series of 
disasters which made the end of Louis XIV's reign as wretched 
as the futile grandeur of its middle years had been brilliant. 
Poverty, famine, disease, death wrought their endless round. 
Hitherto the peasantry had been sacrificed to the nobility; 
now even the king himself actually suffered for food during 
the terrible winter of 1708-9. 

It was this poor wreck of what had been the greatest mon- 
archy of Europe that Louis XV inherited (in 1715) from his 
great-grandfather. Once more France found herself with a 
child king as in the two previous reigns, but now there was 
neither a Richelieu nor a Mazarin to bring an acute and far- 
seeing mind to bear upon a situation far beyond the power of 
the regent to meet. The financial situation alone would have 
been an almost hopeless task to the ablest financier; John 
Law, a probably self-deceived Scotsman, proposed a paper 
money solution so alluring that every last hoarded coin in the 
country went into the coffers of the company. The out- 
come was the same as with the South Sea scheme in England 
— further bankruptcy and ruin where it had seemed as if 
there could be no beyond. 

In very despair of handling conditions so overwhelming, 
the regent, Philip of Orleans, brother of the dead king, gave 
over any serious attempt to do more than tide things along 
until his responsibility should cease when Louis reached his 
majority at the discreet age of thirteen! Meanwhile he and 

226 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 227 

the people about him took a long breath in the freer air of a 
court relieved at last of the dreary ceremonial which the 
Sun King had imposed, and let themselves go in the revelries 
of reaction. Reactionary, too, was the feeling toward re- 
ligion. Louis XV did not regard the wanderings of his private 
life as inconsistent with a devout attention to his religious 
duties. He is said never but once in his life to have missed 
going to mass, and the courtiers were constrained by policy 
if by no other reason to follow his example. Now faith was 
coming to be regarded as superstition and religious duties as 
a bore. 

St. Simon tells an amusing anecdote of church-going under 
Louis' observation. 

Brissac, a few years before his withdrawal, played a strange trick on 
the ladies. He was an upright man who could not endure untruth. He 
noticed indignantly all the seats filled with ladies in the winter at the 
communion service on Thursdays and Sundays when the king never 
failed to be present, and almost no one there when they knew in time 
that he would not. come; and on pretext of reading in their Book of Hours 
they all had little candles before them so that they might be recognized 
and noticed. One evening when the king was expected at the sacrament 
and when they said in the chapel the prayer that was followed every 
evening by the communion service, when all the guards were posted and 
all the ladies in their places, the major arrived toward the end of the 
prayer, and taking his stand by the king's empty tribune, raised his staff 
and cried loudly: " King's guards, withdraw; return to your halls; the 
king is not coming." As soon as the guards had obeyed, murmurs arose 
among the women, the little candles were put out, and they all left ex- 
cept the Duchess of Guche, Mme. de Dangeau and one or two others 
who stayed. Brissac had posted brigadiers at the exits of the chapel 
to stop the guards and send them back to their posts as soon as the ladies 
were far enough off not to suspect anything. Thereupon the king arrived 
who was much surprised at not seeing any ladies filling the tribunes 
and asked how it chanced that there was no one there. When they came 
out from the service Brissac told him what he had done, not without des- 
canting on the piety of the ladies of the court. The king and all those 
with him laughed heartily. The story spread at once; all the ladies 
would have been glad to choke him. 



228 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Literature reflected the century's change of tone. While 
there were inheritors of the classic style and methods there 
were also writers in various forms — verse, drama, romance — 
who allowed themselves a liberality of theme, a naturalness 
of expression, and a diversity of construction that fore- 
shadowed the romantic movement of the nineteenth century. 
Often witty and amusing, the work of this period, as a whole, 
is of no great weight. 

Jean Baptiste Rousseau (1670-1741) is an example of a 
clever formalist, popular in his day. Here is an epigram full 
of satirical enjoyment. 

* An aged Rohan, puffed up with his name, 

A sudden stroke of illness sent to bed; 

A good old Doctor, not unknown to fame, 

Was quickly to the sick man's bedside led, 

And as he felt his pulse, in accents still 

He gravely asked if he felt very ill? 

No answer came. The sly old rascal gave 

A wink; then in his loudest tones he said: 

"My Lord !" Still nothing! "Zounds! The case is grave! 

Prince! " Worse and worse! "Your Highness! — He is dead." 

The name "Voltaire" does not summon thoughts of lyric 
verse, yet this man who could wield so powerful a pen on 
themes of intensity could also sing of 

THE CHARM OF FABLES 

(Translated by Marion Pelton Guild) 

O happy days, those days of fable, 

Of sprites familiar, of demons good, 

Of goblins to mortals serviceable! 

All these things so admirable 

In the old chateau they met to hear 

Where the great fire-place glowed with cheer: 

Father and mother, maiden pale, 

* Translated by J. Ravenel Smith. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 229 

All the family, neighbors too, 
Opened their ears to the chaplain's tale, 
Telling what spell and charm could do. 
Banished now from their ancient places, 
Demon and fairy alike are gone; 
Reason's weight has stifled the graces, 
Dull, insipid, our days drag on; 
Reasoning accredits itself, forsooth; 
Alas, they all run after truth! 
Ah, believe me, sons of earth, 
Error has its worth! 

Alain-Ren£ Le Sage (1 668-1 747), playwright, and author 
of novels realistic in tone, was another admirer of the old 
precisions. He is best known to us to-day by his " History of 
Gil Bias," a rambling tale of adventure that delights by its 
acuteness and good-tempered satire whose universal applica- 
tion places it among the books that live. 

GIL BLAS ENTERS THE SERVICE OF DR. SANGRADO 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

I closed in with the doctor's proposal, in the hope of becoming an Es- 
culapius under so inspired a master. He carried me home on the spur 
of the occasion, to install me in my honorable employment; which honor- 
able employment consisted in writing down the name and residence of 
the patients who sent for him in his absence. There had indeed been a 
register for this purpose, kept by an old domestic; but she had not the 
gift of spelling accurately, and wrote a most perplexing hand. This 
account I was to keep. It might truly be called a bill of mortality; for 
my members all went from bad to worse during the short time they con- 
tinued in this system. I was a sort of bookkeeper for the other world, 
to take places in the stage, and to see that the first come were the first 
served. My pen was always in my hand, for Doctor Sangrado had more 
practice than any physician of his time in Valladolid. He had got into 
reputation with the public by a certain professional slang, humored by a 
medical face, and some extraordinary cases more honored by implicit 
faith than scrupulous investigation. 

He was in no want of patients, nor consequently of property. . . . 

. . . "Hark you, my child," said he to me one day: "I am not one 



230 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

of those hard and ungrateful masters, who leave their household to grow 
gray in service without a suitable reward. I am well pleased with you, I 
have a regard for you; and without waiting till you have served your 
time, I will make your fortune. Without more ado, I will initiate you 
in the healing art, of which I have for so many years been at the head. 
Other physicians make the science to consist of various unintelligible 
-branches; but I will shorten the road for you, and dispense with the 
drudgery of studying natural philosophy, pharmacy, botany, and anat- 
omy. Remember, my friend, that bleeding and drinking warm water 
are the two grand principles, — the true secret of curing all the distempers 
incident to humanity. Yes, this marvelous secret which I reveal to you, 
and which Nature, beyond the reach of my colleagues, has failed in rescu- 
ing from my pen, is comprehended in these two articles; namely, bleeding 
and drenching. Here you have the sum total of my philosophy; you are 
thoroughly bottomed in medicine, and may raise yourself to the summit 
of fame on the shoulders of my long experience. You may enter into 
partnership at once, by keeping the books in the morning and going out 
to visit patients in the afternoon. While I dose the nobility and clergy, 
you shall labor in your vocation among the lower orders; and when you 
have felt your ground a little, I will get you admitted into our body. You 
are a philosopher, Gil Bias, though you have never graduated; the com- 
mon herd of them, though they have graduated in due form and order, 
are likely to run out the length of their tether without knowing their 
right hand from their left." 

I thanked the doctor for having so speedily enabled me to serve as his 
deputy; and by way of acknowledging his goodness, promised to follow 
his system to the end of my career, with a magnanimous indifference 
about the aphorisms of Hippocrates. . . . 

. . . The next day, as soon as I had dined, I resumed my medical 
paraphernalia and took the field once more. I visited several patients 
on the list, and treated their several complaints in one invariable routine. 
Hitherto things went on under the rose; and no individual, thank Heaven, 
had risen up in rebellion against my prescriptions. But let a physician's 
cures be as extraordinary as they will, some quack or other is always ready 
to rip up his reputation. I was called in to a grocer's son in a dropsy. 
Whom should I find there before me but a little black-looking physician, 
by name Doctor Cuchillo, introduced by a relation of the family. I 
bowed round most profoundly, but dipped lowest to the personage whom 
I took to have been invited to a consultation with me. He returned my 
compliment with a distant air; then, having stared me in the face for a 
few seconds, — "Signor Doctor," said he, "I beg pardon for being in- 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUS SION-THE EIGHTEENTH 231 

quisitive: I thought I was acquainted with all my brethren in Valla- 
dolid, but I confess your physiognomy is altogether new. You must 
have been settled but a short time in town." I avowed myself a young 
practitioner, acting as yet under the direction of Doctor Sangrado. 
"I wish you joy/' replied he politely: "you are studying under a great 
man. You must doubtless have seen a vast deal of sound practice, young 
as you appear to be." He spoke this with so easy an assurance that I 
was at a loss whether he meant it seriously, or was laughing at me. While 
I was conning over my reply, the grocer, seizing on the opportunity, 
said, " Gentlemen, I am persuaded of your both being perfectly competent 
in your art; have the goodness without ado to take the case in hand, and 
devise some effectual means for the restoration of my son's health." 

Thereupon the little pulse-counter set himself about reviewing the 
patient's situation; and after having dilated to me on all the symptoms, 
asked me what I thought the fittest method of treatment. "I am of 
opinion," replied I, "that he should be bled once a day, and drink as 
much warm water as he can swallow." At these words, our diminutive 
doctor said to me, with a malicious simper, "And so you think such a 
course will save the patient?" "Not a doubt of it," exclaimed I in a 
confident tone: "it must produce that effect, because it is a certain 
method of cure for all distempers. Ask Signor Sangrado." "At that 
rate," retorted he, " Celsus is altogether in the wrong; for he contends that 
the readiest way to cure a dropsical subject is to let him almost die of 
hunger and thirst." "Oh, as for Celsus," interrupted I, "he is no oracle 
of mine; as fallible as the meanest of us: I often have occasion to bless 
myself for going contrary to his dogmas." " I discover by your language," 
said Cuchillo, "the safe and sure method of practice Doctor Sangrado 
instills into his pupils. Bleeding and drenching are the extent of his re- 
sources. No wonder so many worthy people are cut off under his direc- 
tion." — "No defamation!" interrupted I with some acrimony: "a mem- 
ber of the faculty had better not begin throwing stones. Come, come, my 
learned doctor, patients can get to the other world without bleeding and 
warm water; and I question whether the most deadly of us has ever 
signed more passports than yourself. If you have any crow to pluck 
with Signor Sangrado, write against him; he will answer you, and we 
shall soon see who will have the best of the battle." " By all the saints 
in the calendar!" swore he in a transport of passion, "you little know 
whom you are talking to. I have a tongue and a fist, my friend; and am 
not afraid of Sangrado, who with all his arrogance and affectation is but 
a ninny." The size of the little death-dealer made me hold his anger 
cheap. I gave him a sharp retort; he sent back as good as I brought, 



232 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

till at last we came to cuffs. We had pulled a few handfuls of hair from 
each other's head before the grocer and his kinsman could part us. When 
they had brought this about, they fee'd me for my attendance, and re- 
tained my antagonist, whom they thought the more skillful of the two. 

Le Sage also staged comedies of manners which ridiculed 
with somewhat ponderous scorn the bourgeois financiers of 
his day. 

Lighter in touch, and with a delicate play of psychologic 
development is Marivaux (1688-1763) whose style of not 
unpleasant affectation added to the language, as did Marot's, 
a descriptive word, "marivaudage." His comedies were 
pleasing because, while romantic, their analysis was new and 
clear, though searching, and they sent home their shafts with 
a light touch. A novelist as well as a dramatist, Marivaux 
presented in "The Life of Marianne " a naturalistic story in 
which Parisians might read of themselves with pleased recog- 
nition. Marianne's naive comments on her experiences in 
church are here related. 

I had already told you that I went to church. At the entrance I found 
a crowd of people, but I did not stop. My new dress and my toilette 
would have been too disarrayed and I tried by gliding through very 
gently to reach the upper part of the church where I perceived many 
fashionable people sitting at their ease. 

There were finely dressed women there, some of them ugly and con- 
scious of it, who tried to have so elegant an air that no one would notice 
their lack of looks; others who did not suspect it at all and who with the 
best faith in the world mistook coquetry for beauty. 

I noticed one among them, very sweet and lovable, who did not give 
herself the trouble to be a coquette; she was above such methods of 
pleasing, and she trusted nonchalantly to her good looks; and this it 
was that distinguished her from the others, of whom she seemed to be 
saying, "I am naturally all that these women would like to be." 

There were also a number of well-made young cavaliers, gentlemen of 
cloak and sword, whose countenances bore witness that they were well 
content with themselves. They leaned upon the backs of their chairs 
in easy and gallant poses such as might stamp them as conversant with 
the good manners of the world. I noticed them now leaning forward 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 233 

against their supports, then straightening themselves again; now smil- 
ing, then saluting to right and left — all less for politeness or duty than to 
show their air of good breeding and their importance, and to exhibit 
themselves under different aspects. 

I guessed the thoughts of all these people with no effort; my instinct 
saw nothing there outside its knowledge, or lacking in clearness, for you 
must not mistakenly estimate my penetration for more than it is worth. 

We have two kinds of understanding, we women. First we have our 
own understanding which we receive from nature, which we use for 
reasoning according to the degree of its ability, which develops as it can, 
and which knows only what it perceives. Then we have still another 
understanding which is apart from us and which is to be found in the 
stupidest women. It is the condition of mind that the vanity of pleasing 
gives us and which is called coquetry. Oh! to be well instructed this 
phase of mind need not wait for age; it is full grown as soon as it arrives; 
its knowledge always compasses the theory of what it sees in practice. 
It is a child of pride born grown up, which at first lacks audacity of action 
though not of thought. It can be taught grace and good manners, but 
it learns only the form and never the essence. That is my belief. And it 
was with this understanding I speak of that I read so well the methods 
of these women: it was this understanding, too, that caused me to com- 
prehend the new; for with the extreme desire to be to their taste one has 
the key of all that they are doing to be to yours; and never will there be 
any merit in all this save to be vain and coquettish. 

I could well have omitted this little parenthesis proving it to you, for 
you know it as well as I do; but I started too late to realize that you know 
it. I see my faults only when I have committed them; that is one way 
of seeing them plainly, but not to your profit nor to mine, is it? Let us 
return to the church. 

The place that I had chosen placed me in the midst of the people of 
whom I speak. What a scene of festivity! It was my first opportunity 
to enjoy the success aroused by my little face. I was quite stirred by the 
pleasures of anticipation; indeed I nearly lost my breath; for I was certain 
of success, and my vanity pictured in advance the glances that every- 
body would throw upon me. 

I did not have to wait long. Hardly was I seated before I drew the 
eyes of all the men. I focussed all their attention: but that was but half 
of my honors; the women did the rest for me. They perceived that it 
was no longer a question of their attractions, that no one was looking at 
them any longer, that I had left them not a single observer, and that the 
desertion was general. 



234 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Manon Lescaut," an extract from a long story, has lived 
until the present as a book, a play, and an opera, because of 
the touching charm of its tale of tender though mistaken love. 
Its author, the Abbe Prevost (1677-1763), wielded the pen 
of a writer too ready to take the pains necessary to greatness. 
He is always full of appeal, however, as this extract telling of 
Manon's death will show. 

We walked as far as Manon's courage could sustain her, that is to say, 
about two leagues; for this incomparable girl constantly refused to stop 
sooner. Overcome at last by lassitude she confessed to me that it was 
impossible for her to go farther. It was already night; we sat down in a 
vast plain where we could not find a tree to shelter us. Her first care was 
to change the bandage on my wound which she herself had dressed be- 
fore our departure. I opposed her desire in vain; I should have wounded 
her bitterly if I had refused her the satisfaction of thinking me comfort- 
able and out of danger before she thought of caring for herself. I yielded 
to her wishes for some time; I received her attentions silent and ashamed. 

But when she had satisfied her tenderness with what ardor did mine 
take its turn. I took off my garments that she might find the ground 
less hard to lie on. I made her consent, in spite of herself, to see me do 
everything I could think of for her comfort. I warmed her hands by my 
burning kisses and the warmth of my sighs. I passed the entire night 
in watching beside her and in praying heaven to grant her sweet and 
peaceful sleep. Oh God, how ardent and sincere were my prayers and 
by what a severity of judgment had you decided not to grant them! 

Forgive me if I finish in a few words a tale that kills me in the telling. 
I am speaking to you of a misfortune that never had its like; my whole 
life will be spent in lamenting it. But, though I always bear it in my 
memory, my soul seems to recoil with horror every time that I try to 
speak of it. 

We had passed a part of the night quietly. I thought my dear lady 
asleep, and I dared not draw the least breath for fear of disturbing her 
sleep. Toward daybreak I noticed as I touched her hands that they were 
cold and trembling. I laid them against my breast to warm them. She 
felt the movement and, making an effort to lay hold of mine, she said in a 
weak voice that she thought she was dying. 

At first I looked on this speech as but the usual language of misfortune 
and I replied to it by the tender consolations of love. But her frequent 
sighs, her silence when I questioned her, the pressure of her hands in 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 235 

which she continued to hold mine, made me realize that the end of her 
troubles was approaching. 

Do not ask me to describe my feelings nor to tell you her last words. 
I lost her; I received from her tokens of affection up to the very moment 
when she died. That is all of this dire, and this deplorable event that 
I have the strength to tell you. 

Alexis Piron (1689-1773) wrote a comedy "Metro- 
mania" ("Metre Madness") depicting the adventures of a 
poetry-crazed youth. The author managed to fall into dis- 
favor with the king who refused to confirm his election to 
the Academy; whereupon Piron wrote his own epitaph, with 
its flavor of sour grapes. 

Here lies Piron, a failure. No magician 
Could make him even an Academician. 

Jean-Baptiste-Louis Gresset (1709-1777), analyzing the 
pernicious activities of a malicious man, is further testimony 
to the century's tendency toward psychology. With that as 
the basis of almost all dramatic presentation there was also 
an undercurrent of comment on all the discussions of the day 
— religion, economics, philosophy. Indeed, every literary 
form served as a vehicle for discussion in this century which 
grew more and more fond of discussion as the years rolled on. 
Few writers confined themselves to one form. Even the 
omniscient encyclopedist, Diderot, wrote plays. 

Destouches (1680-1754) was another dramatist of a 
psychological turn, who developed character studies into 
plays, "The Ingrate," "The Slanderer," "The Man of 
Irresolution." 

The two Crebillons, father and son, were both writers 
admired in their own time, though the son's novels are too 
coarse to be read now, and the father's tragedies are too 
heavy to command our enjoyment. Both in turn held the 
office of Royal Censor. It would seem to have been not 
without its personal advantages. This extract from the 



236 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Electra" of the older Crebillon (Prosper Jolyot, 1674- 
1762) will give an idea of its "classical" leaning. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Clytemnestra. So! far from answering a mother's kindness, 
Thou heap'st defiance on that sacred name! 
And when my pity seeks her happiness, 
Electra scorns me still. Ay, ay, defy me, 
Proud princess, unrelenting ! but accuse 
None save thyself, that Fate so frowns on thee! 
From a great monarch, jealous of his power, 
I won a hero-husband for my daughter; 
And hasty Hope has shown to me the sceptre 
Within our house once more, bought by that union; 
Yet she, ungrateful, only seeks our ruin! 
But one word more : thou hold'st the heart of Itys, 
And this same day shall see your lots united. 
Refuse him at thy peril! for Aegisthus 
Is weary of the slave within his palace, 
Whose tears move men and gods to pity. 

Electra. Pity! 

Against so proud a tyrant, O ye heavens, 
What weapon? Can he fear my harmless tears, 
Who thus defies remorse? Ah, madam, — mother! 
Is it for thee to add to my misfortunes? 
I, I ^Egisthus's slave — alack, how comes it? 
Ah, hapless daughter! who such slave has made me? 
And say, of whom was this Electra born? 
And is it fitting thou shouldst so reproach me? 
Mother! — if still that holy name can move thee, — 
And if indeed my shame be known to all 
Within this palace, — show compassion on me, 
And on the griefs thy hand hath heaped upon me; 
Speed, speed my death! but think not to unite me 
To him, the son of that foul murderer! 
That wretch whose fury robbed me of a father, 
And still pursues him in his son and daughter. 
Usurping even the disposal of my hand! 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 237 

Canst speak of such a marriage, and not shudder? 

Mother! that lovedst me once, — how have I lost it, 

Thy tender love? Alas! I cannot hate thee; 

Despite the sorrows that have hedged me round, 

The bitter tears I shed within this place, 

'Tis only for the tyrant I invoke 

The high gods' wrath. Ah, if I must forget 

That I have lost a father — help me, madam, 

To still remember that I have a mother! 
Clytemnestra. What can I do? how act? Naught save thy marriage 

Will satisfy the King. I pray thee, yield. 

Repine no longer at thy destined lot, 

And cease bewailing o'er a dead barbarian 

Who — had he found another Ilion — 

Thyself full quickly would have made an offering 

Upon the altar of his own ambition. 

Thus did he dare — oh dark and cruel heart! — 

Before mine eyes to sacrifice my daughter! 
Electra. Cruel, — ay, madam; yet was he thy husband. 

If thus he purchased for him punishment, 

What gods or men appointed thee avenger? 

If Heaven in extremity of harshness 

Compelled him, hapless hero ! to outpour 

His own blood — answer ! was it not for Heaven 

He spilled it? But thou, most unnatural mother 

Of sorrow-scourged Electra and Orestes, 

Thou too wouldst spill the last drops of that blood; 

Not for high Heaven, jealous of its altars, 

But for the vilest mortal. Ah, behold him! 

He comes, inhuman wretch! and at the sight 

Fierce passions stir within my seething soul. 

Greatest of all the dramatists of this century was that 
master of many forms, Franqois Marie Arouet, called 
Voltaire (1694-1 778) . His comedies were few and mediocre, 
but he wrote twenty-eight tragedies of which four are placed 
by critics in the first rank of French dramatic verse. " Zaire " 
is the best of these, exact in language, classical in form, of 
moving plot. It tells the story of the love of the sultan 



238 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Orosmane for a beautiful slave, Zaire, of his jealousy for a 
Christian captive, really Zaire's brother, of his assassination 
of Zaire in a fit of jealous passion and of his own suicide by 
way of expiation. The struggle which must be in every 
drama to give it cause for existence is between Zaire's love 
for the sultan, who is about to make her his bride while she 
is still a Mussulman, and her latent leaning toward Christian- 
ity aroused by her newly-found father, Lusignan, a descend- 
ant of the Kings of Jerusalem, and her brother, Nerestan. 
The whole tone of the play is elevated and sincere. Its 
climax comes in the third act when Nerestan declares death 
to be the worthy punishment for a Christian who would wed 
a Mussulman and Zaire cries "Strike then! I love him!" 
Here is the scene: 

Nerestan. Sister, may I speak to you? Ah? at what a time has Heaven 
chosen to reunite us ! You will never see again your unhappy father. 

Zaire. God! Lusignan? . . . 

Nerestan. His last hour is approaching. His joy at seeing us, spurring 
him to effort, has sapped the source of his already weakened strength, 
and the emotion which filled his soul soon exhausted the springs of life. 
But, as a crown of horror, he is doubtful in his last moments as to the 
creed of his daughter; he is dying in bitterness and his restless soul is 
asking with sighs whether you are a Christian. 

Zaire. What ! I am your sister, and yet you think that I shall renounce 
my lineage and my faith! 

Nerestan. Ah! sister! that faith is not yet yours; the day which en- 
lightens you is but dawning; you have not received that precious rite 
which washes away our crimes and opens Heaven for us. Swear by our 
misfortunes and by your family, by those holy martyrs whose descend- 
ant you are, that you will receive here, to-day, the seal of the living God 
which binds us to Him. 

Zaire. Yes, I swear between your hands by this God whom I adore, 
by His law which I seek, which my heart does not yet know, to live hence- 
forth under His holy law. . . . But, dear brother, . . . Alas! 
what does it ask of me? What does it require? 

Nerestan. To hate the sway of your masters; to serve, to love this 
God whom our ancestors loved, who, born hard by these walls, died here 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 239 

for us; who has brought us together; who led me to you. How should I 
tell you of Him? I, more faithful than learned, am but a soldier, and I 
have but my zeal. A holy priest will come hither and bring you life, and 
unseal your eyes. Think of your oaths, and that the baptismal water 
does not bring you death and a curse. Get permission for me to return 
with him. But by what claim, oh, Heaven! must you obtain it? From 
whom in this accursed seraglio must you demand it? You, the scion of 
twenty kings, are the slave of Orosmane! Kin to Louis, daughter of 
Lusignan! You, a Christian, and my sister, are the slave of a sultan! 
You hear me, ... I dare not say more: God, have you preserved 
us for this last outrage ! 

Zaire. Ah! cruel man! continue. You know not my secret, my tor- 
ments, my desires, my struggles. Brother, have pity on a sister, strayed 
from the fold, who burns and groans, who, all despairing, dies. I am 
Christian, alas! ... I await with ardent longing this holy water, 
this water which can heal my heart. No, I shall not be unworthy of my 
brother, of my ancestors, of myself, of my unhappy father. Speak then 
to Zaire and conceal nothing from her; tell me . . . what is the 
law of the Christian empire? What is the punishment for an unfortunate 
girl who, far from her relations, abandoned to slavery, finding generous 
support in a barbarian, touched his heart, and united herself to him? 

Nerestan. Oh Heaven! What is this you say? Ah! Swiftest death 
should . . . 

Zaire. Enough; strike, and prevent your shame. 

Nerestan. Who? You? my sister? 

Zaire. It is I myself whom I have just accused. Orosmane adores 
me. . . and I was about to marry him. 

Nerestan. To marry him! Is it true, sister? You, yourself? You the 
daughter of kings? 

Zaire. Strike, I say; I love him. 

Nerestan. Unhappy shameless issue of the race from whom you sprang, 
you ask for death and you deserve death: and if I were to give heed only 
to thy shame and my self-respect, to the honor of my house, of my father, 
and of his memory, if the law of thy God, whom thou dost not know, and 
of my religion did not withhold my arm, I should go into the palace 
this very instant and sacrifice with this sword the barbarian who loves 
thee, and from his unworthy side I should plunge the steel into thine, 
and thence withdrawing it, should plunge it into mine. Heaven! while 
Louis, earth's great example, is warring along the frightened Nile, 
previous to coming hither to deliver by his strong arm thy God and return 
to Him these walls, Zaire, meanwhile, my sister, his relative, is bound by 



240 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

marriage to the tyrant of a seraglio ! And I return and tell Lusignan the 
betrayed that his daughter has chosen a Tartar as a God! Alas! At 
this harrowing moment thy father is dying as he asks of God the safety 
of Zaire. 

Zaire. Stop, dear brother. . . . Stop, know my purpose better. 
Perhaps Zaire is still worthy of you. Brother, spare me this horrible 
language; your anger, your reproach is greater outrage, keener and harder 
for me to bear than that death which I asked of you and which you do 
not give me. The condition in which you find me overwhelms your 
courage: you sutler, I see you do; I suffer more. Would that the harsh 
help of Heaven had arrested the flow of my blood in my heart on the day 
when this pure Christian blood, poisoned by a wicked flame, burned for 
Orosmane, the day when Orosmane, charmed by your sister. . . . 
Forgive me, ye Christians, who would not have loved him ! He did every- 
thing for me; his heart had chosen me; I saw his pride soften for me alone. 
It is he who has reanimated the hope of the Christians; it is to him that I 
owe the happiness of seeing you; forgive; your anger, my father, my 
tenderness, my oaths, my duty, my remorse, my weakness are punish- 
ment enough and your sister even now is overwhelmed by her repentance 
far more than by her love. 

Nerestan. I both blame and pity you; believe me, Providence will not 
let you die unless you are innocent. Alas! I forgive you these hateful 
struggles; God has not yet lent you his victorious arm; that arm which 
gives strength to the weakest, courage will sustain this weak reed beaten 
by storms. He will not permit that your heart, pledged to His faith, 
be divided between a barbarian and Himself. Baptism will extinguish 
this love that fills it, and you shall live in the faith or die a martyr. Then 
complete now the oath you began; complete it, and amidst the horror with 
which your heart is pressed, promise to King Louis, to Europe, to your 
father, to that God who already is speaking to your sincere heart, not 
to allow this hateful marriage before the priest has cleared your eyes, 
before he makes you a Christian in my presence, before God adopts 
you at his hands and strengthens you. Do you promise, Zaire? 

Zaire. Yes, I promise; make me a Christian and free, I submit to it 
all. Go, close the eyes of our dying father. Go. Would that I might 
follow thee and die first. 

Nerestan. I go. Adieu, sister, since my wishes can not tear you away 
from this palace of disgrace, I shall soon return and by a timely baptism 
snatch thee from the fires of hell, and once more return thee to yourself. 

The moral influence of the court, grosser under the man- 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 241 

hood rule of Louis XV than in the time of the regent even, 
affected letters as well as life. Many of the novels and poems 
were both irreligious and vulgar, while plays were either 
coarse beyond excuse or sentimental to the point of tears. 
Verse writers were not many. Gresset is their chief, his most 
amusing poem being his story of the Vert- Vert (" Greeny") 
the parrot, who attained such piety of speech in a convent 
that he was invited to visit another convent that he might 
astonish the nuns. He did astonish them — but it was by his 
profanity which he picked up from his fellow-travellers on 
the trip. 

The following passage describes Vert- Vert's accomplish- 
ments: 

Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at 
That best accomplishment called chit chat; 
For, though brought up within the cloister, 
His beak was not closed like an oyster, 
But, trippingly, without a stutter, 
The longest sentences would utter. 
Pious withal, and moralizing, 
His conversation was surprising; 
None of your equivoques, no slander, — 
To such vile tastes he scorned to pander; 
But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on 
11 Deo sit laus" and "Kyrie Eleison"; 
The maxims he gave with best emphasis 
Were Suarez's or Thomas a Kempis'. 
In Christmas carols he was famous, 
"Orate, fratres" and u Or emus"; 

The parrot's journey was on the River Loire. 

Ver-vert took shipping in this craft, 
'Tis not said whether fore or aft; 

and he met on board a motley group. 

For a poor bird brought up in purity 
'Twas a sad augur for futurity 



242 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

To meet, just free from his indentures, 
And in the first of his adventures, 
Such company as formed his hansel, — 
Two rogues! A friar!! and a damsel!!! 
Birds the above were of a feather; 
But to Ver-vert 'twas altogether 
Such a strange aggregate of scandals 
As to be met among the Vandals. 
Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, 
And calculated to demolish 
All the fine notions and good-breeding 
Taught by the nuns in their sweet Eden. 
No billingsgate surpassed the nurse's, 
And all the rest indulged in curses : 
Ear hath not heard such vulgar gab in 
The nautic cell of any cabin. 

The bird proved an apt pupil, and grew so to like his com- 
panions that he made tremendous though useless objection 
to being carried from the boat to the convent. 

Thus was Ver-vert, heart-sick and weary, 
Brought to the heavenly monastery. 



Round the bright stranger, so amazing 
And so renowned, the sisters, gazing, 
Praised the green glow which a warm latitude 
Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude. 
Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten 
Some by his beak so beauteous bitten! 

Meantime, the abbess, to draw out 

A bird so modest and devout, 

With soothing air and tone caressing 

The pilgrim of the Loire addressing, 

Broached the most edifying topics 

To start this native of the tropics; 

When, O, surprise ! the pert young Cupid 

Breaks forth, — "Morbleu! those nuns are stupid!" 

Showing how well he learned his task on 

The packet-boat from that vile Gascon. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 243 

Forth, like a Congreve rocket, burst 

He stormed and swore, flared up and cursed. 

The younger sisters mild and meek 
Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek; 
But the old matrons and "the bench" 
Knew every word was genuine French; 

Such a wicked visitor could not be allowed to remain, and 

Straight in a cage the nuns insert 
The guilty person of Ver-vert; 

Back to the convent of his youth, 

Sojourn of innocence and truth, 

Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, 

His heart with vice contaminated. 

Must I tell how on his return, 

He scandalized his old sojourn, 

And how the guardians of his infancy 

Wept o'er their quondane child's delinquency? 

Some are for punishing him severely. 

But milder views prevailed. His sentence 
Was, that until he showed repentance, 
"A solemn fast and frugal diet 
Silence exact, and pensive quiet, 
Should be his lot;" 

The prodigal, reclaimed and free, 

Became again a prodigy, 

And gave more joy, by works and words, 

Than ninety-nine canary birds, 

Until his death — which last disaster 

(Nothing on earth endures!) came faster 

Than they imagined. 

And from a short life and a merry, 
Poll sailed one day per Charon's ferry. 

Another writer who, like the Abbe Prevost, lives to-day in 
opera is Beaumarchais (173 2-1 799) who bought the right 



244 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

to use the noble's de before his name, and who earned a patent 
of artistic nobility by the abundant use of his talents. His 
wit and invention have made "The Barber of Seville" and 
the "Marriage of Figaro" sure of a joyous reception even 
to-day, though they have not the meaning for us that they 
had for people trained to look at the old regime through the 
eyes of Voltaire and Rousseau. Through the gayety of the 
"Marriage" flashes the bitterness of the poor against the 
privileged when Figaro, the valet, asks why the Count, his 
master, lies on such a bed of roses, and answers his own 
question with the sneer "Because you took the trouble to be 
born!" Here is a part of Figaro's account of his life. 

Figaro, {walking in the dark). Count, because you are a great lord 
you think yourself a great genius! . . . nobility, fortune, rank, 
position; things like these make you haughty. What have you done to 
deserve such prosperity? You took the trouble to be born and noth- 
ing more! Otherwise you're an ordinary sort of man! While I, lost in 
the common herd, I've had to use more science and calculation just to 
live than has been expended in a hundred years in governing all the 
Spains. . . . {He sits down on a bench.) There's nothing stranger 
than my fate. Son of I know not whom and stolen by bandits, reared 
in their habits I become disgusted with them and wish to follow an honest 
career. Everywhere I am repulsed. I learn chemistry, pharmacy, 
surgery — and all a great lord's influence can hardly put a horse doctor's 
lancet in my hand. Weary of tormenting sick beasts and eager to enter 
upon an entirely different occupation I fling myself head-long into the 
theater. Better had I hung a stone around my neck! I scamper through 
a comedy concerning the customs of the seraglio. Being Spanish I 
think I can put Mahomet into it without any objection. Immediately 
an envoy from I know not where complains that in my verses I am offend- 
ing the Sublime Porte, Persia, a part of the peninsula of India, the whole 
of Egypt, the Kingdom of Barca, Tripoli, Tunis, Algiers and Morocco; 
and there's my comedy ruined to please a lot of Mahometan princes not 
one of whom, to the best of my belief, knows how to read, and who would 
all bruise our shoulderblades as they called us "dogs of Christians." 
Unable to debase the spirit they take their revenge in abusing it. My 
cheeks grew hollow, my time had expired; I saw coming from afar the 
horrid bailiff, his pen stuck in his wig. Trembling, I struggled on. There 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 245 

arose some public interest on the nature of wealth, and as it is not neces- 
sary to have a thing in order to theorize about it, not having a sou I 
wrote on the value of money and its net product. I soon saw from a 
cab the drawbridge of a stronghold lowered for me, and when I entered 
I lost hope and liberty. {He rises.) How I should like to shut up one 
of these powerful upstarts who are so jaunty over the trouble that they 
inflict, until a good dose of disgrace has lowered his pride! I would say 
to him . . . that marked stupidities have importance only in places 
where their course is obstructed; that without the liberty of blaming, 
there is no such thing as a flattering eulogy, and it is only the petty who 
fear obscure writings. — {He sits down again.) Tired of feeding an un- 
known boarder they turn me out one day and as one must dine even when 
not in prison, I trim my pen and ask everybody what the news is. They 
tell me that during my economical withdrawal there had been established 
at Madrid a system of free sale of products which even extended to the 
press; and that provided I never mention the government, nor religion 
nor politics nor morality nor people in high position nor business houses 
nor the Opera nor any other plays nor anybody who had anything to do 
with anything, I am at liberty to publish freely . . . under the in- 
spection of two or three censors. In order to take advantage of such sweet 
liberty I announce a periodical, and thinking that I was not encroaching 
on any other I call it "The Useless Journal." Pow-wow! A thousand 
poor scribbling devils rise against me at once; I am suppressed and 
straightway I am out of employment. 

Despair seized me. Then some one suggested me for a situation for 
which, as ill-luck would have it, I was suited. It needed a calculator; a 
dancer got it. There was nothing left for me to do but steal. I start a 
faro bank, and presto, good folk! I sup in town and the aristocracy 
politely opens their doors to me, keeping for themselves three-fourths 
of the profit. I was on the point of retrieving myself; I began at last to 
understand of how much more value "know-how" is than knowledge 
itself. But as every one about me was thieving while at the same time 
they required me to be honest I had to succumb once more. I was on 
the point of bidding farewell to this world and of putting twenty fathoms 
of water between me and it, when a kind providence recalled me to my 
early condition. I picked up my razor and strop again, and leaving 
the smoke of the town for the folk who fatten on it, and shame in the 
middle of the road as too heavy for a foot-passenger, I walk on, shaving 
my way from town to town, and thus I live without worry. 

Of the contributors of general literature of this century 



246 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

many were to be found among the minor as well as the greater 
lights of the salons which were the descendants of the meet- 
ings of the Hotel de Rambouillet. Of the women best known 
among these groups there stand out Julie de l'Espinasse, 
whose story became widely known when Mrs. Humphry 
Ward based on it the plot of her novel, "Lady Rose's Daugh- 
ter/' and the Marquise du Deffand who had been Julie's 
protector before they quarrelled. Mademoiselle de l'Espin- 
asse was a woman of sympathy and charm; Madame du 
Deffand (1697-1780) conquered admiration by the real 
power of .her intelligence. She was a great admirer of every- 
thing English, she knew the most interesting people in France, 
and her critical powers enabled her to talk and write with 
rare descriptive power. Rarely descriptive indeed is her 
portrait of Horace Walpole, drawn for the sitter in a letter 
addressed to him in November, 1765. 

PORTRAIT OF HORACE WALPOLE 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

No, No! I do not want to draw your likeness; nobody knows you less 
than I. Sometimes you seem to me what I wish you were, sometimes 
what I fear you may be, and perhaps never what you really are. I know 
very well that you have a great deal of wit of all kinds and all styles, 
and you must know it better than any one. 

But your character should be painted, and of that I am not a good 
judge. It would require indifference, or impartiality at least. However, I 
can tell you that you are a very sincere man, that you have principles, 
that you are brave, that you pride yourself upon your firmness; that when 
you have come to a decision, good or bad, nothing induces you to change 
it, so that your firmness sometimes resembles obstinacy. Your heart is 
good and your friendship strong, but neither tender nor facile. Your 
fear of being weak makes you hard. You are on your guard against all 
sensibility. You cannot refuse to render valuable services to your 
friends; you sacrifice your own interest to them, but you refuse them the 
slightest of favors. Kind and humane to all about you, you do not give 
yourself the slightest trouble to please your friends in little ways. 

Your disposition is very agreeable although not very even. All your 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 247 

ways are noble, easy, and natural. Your desire to please does not lead 
you into affectation. Your knowledge of the world and your experience 
have given you a great contempt for men, and taught you how to live 
with them. You know that all their assurances go for nothing. In ex- 
change you give them politeness and consideration, and all those who do 
not care about being loved are content with you. 

I do not know whether you have much feeling. If you have, you fight 
it as a weakness. You permit yourself only that which seems virtuous. 
You are a philosopher; you have no vanity, although you have a great 
deal of self-love. But your self-love does not blind you; it rather makes 
you exaggerate your faults than conceal them. You never extol yourself 
except when you are forced to do so by comparing yourself with other 
men. You possess discernment, very delicate tact, very correct taste; 
your tone is excellent. 

You would have been the best possible companion in past centuries; 
you are in this, and you would be in those to come. Englishman as you 
are, your manners belong to all countries. 

You have an unpardonable weakness to which you sacrifice your feel- 
ings and submit your conduct — the fear of ridicule. It makes you de- 
pendent upon the opinion of fools; and your friends are not safe from the 
impressions against them which fools choose to give you. 

Your judgment is easily confused. You are aware of this weakness, 
which you control by the firmness with which you pursue your resolu- 
tions. Your opposition to any deviation is sometimes pushed too far, 
and exercised in matters not worth the trouble. 

Your instincts are noble and generous. You do good for the pleasure 
of doing it, without ostentation, without claiming gratitude; in short, 
your spirit is beautiful and high. 

The gatherings of Madame Necker, mother of Madame de 
Stagl, attracted chiefly literary men, among them Diderot, 
the encyclopedist, and Buflon the naturalist who sent for her 
when on his deathbed. Madame Roland's salons were more 
political. Her husband was a man in public life, and their 
house was the center of the Girondin interests. From the 
horrors of 1793 Roland escaped but he died by his own hand 
when he heard of his wife's execution. Her life in prison was 
solaced by the writing of her incomparable " Memoirs." 
"O Liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!" was 



248 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

her dying exclamation before she laid her head beneath the 
knife. Her own account of her first arrest not only shows her 
clear and direct style, but gives a picture of the turmoil and 
injustice of the Revolutionary days. 

* I was hardly seated when I heard a knock at the door; it was about 
midnight; a numerous deputation from the Commune presented them- 
selves and asked for Roland. 

" He is not at home." 

"But," said the personage who wore an officer's collar, "where can he 
be? When will he come back? You ought to know his habits and be 
able to guess when he will come back." 

"I do not know," I answered, "if your orders authorize you to ask me 
such questions, but I know that nothing can oblige me to answer them. 
Roland left his house while I was at the Convention; he could not tell 
me his secrets, and I have nothing more to say." 

The party retired very much dissatisfied. I noticed that they left a 
sentinel at my door, and a guard at the door of the house. I presumed 
that there was nothing more I could do but collect all my strength to 
sustain whatever might happen. I was overcome with fatigue. I made 
them give me some supper. I finished my note, and gave it to my faith- 
ful servant, and went to bed. I slept soundly for an hour, when my serv- 
ant entered my room to tell me that some members of the Section 
begged me to go into the study. 

"I understand what they mean," I answered. "Go, my child; I will 
not keep them waiting." 

I jumped out of bed; I dressed myself; my servant came and was 
astonished that I took the trouble to put on anything but a dressing- 
gown. "One must be decent to go out," I observed. The poor girl 
looked at me with eyes full of tears. I passed into the apartment. 

"We are come, Citoyenne, to put you under arrest and to seal your 
things." 

"Where is your authority?" 

"Here it is," said a man drawing from his pocket an order from the 
Revolutionary Commander, without any reason for arrest to conduct 
me to the Abbaye. 

"Like Roland, I can tell you that I do not acknowledge these com- 
mittees, that I do not submit to these orders, and that you will only take 
me from here by violence." 

* From "Half Hours with the Best French Authors." 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 249 

"Here is another order," a little man with a disagreeable face hastened 
to say in a conceited tone; and he read me one from the Commune which 
ordered the arrest of Roland and his wife without mentioning the cause. 

I considered while he was reading whether I should carry my resistance 
as far as possible, or if I should act with resignation. I might avail 
myself of the law which forbids arrests by night; and if they insisted on 
the law that authorizes the municipality to seize suspected persons, 
answer that the municipality itself was illegal, having been suppressed 
and re-created by an arbitrary power. But this power the citizens of 
Paris had, in a manner, sanctioned; and the law is no longer anything 
but a name used to insult the most thoroughly acknowledged rights; 
and force reigns and if I oblige them to exert it these brutes know no 
bounds; resistance is useless and might endanger me. 

"How do you mean to proceed, gentlemen? " 

"We have sent for a justice of the peace from the Section, and you see 
a detachment of his armed force." 

The justice of the peace arrived; they put seals on everything — on the 
windows, on the linen cupboard. One man wanted to put them on the 
pianoforte; they remarked to him that it was an instrument; he drew a 
foot-rule from his pocket and measured its dimensions as if he would 
fix its destination. I asked to be allowed to take out some things com- 
posing my daughter's wardrobe, and I made a little packet of night things 
for myself. Nevertheless fifty or a hundred people went in and out con- 
tinually, filled the two rooms, surrounded everything and might have 
concealed ill-intentioned persons who intended to take up or put down 
anything. The air was loaded with pestilential exhalations; I was ob- 
liged to go near the window of the anteroom to breathe. The officer 
did not dare to command this crowd to retire; he only ventured a gentle 
entreaty now and then, which only increased it. Seated at my desk, 
I wrote to tell a friend of my situation and to commend my daughter 
to her care. As I was folding the letter, "Madame," cried Monsieur 
Nicaud (the bearer of the order of the Commune), "you must read your 
letter and name the person that you have written to." 

"I consent to read it if that is enough for you!" 

"It would be better to say to whom you have written." 

"I shall not do so; to be called my friend just now is not such an agree- 
able thing that I should wish to name those in whom I trust"; and I 
tore up my letter. As I turned my back, they picked up the bits to place 
them under seal. I could have laughed at this stupid persistence; there 
was no address. 

At last, at seven o'clock in the morning, I left my daughter and all my 



250 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

servants, after having exhorted them to be calm and patient. I felt 
that their tears honored me more than oppression could terrify me. 

"You have people there who love you," said one of these commis- 
sioners. 

"I have never had any others about me," I replied, and went down. 
I found two rows of armed men, reaching from the bottom of the stair- 
case to a carriage which stopped on the other side of the street, and a 
crowd of curious people. I went on gravely and slowly, noticing this 
cowardly or deluded mob. The armed force followed the carriage in two 
lines; the unhappy people who are deceived, and whose throats are cut 
in the persons of their lost friends, attracted by the sight, stopped in my 
way, and some women cried out, "To the guillotine!" 

"Would you like the curtains drawn?" said the commissioners, ob- 
ligingly. 

"No; innocence, however oppressed it may be, never assumes the ap- 
pearance of guilt. I fear nobody's looks, I do not wish to withdraw my- 
self from them, whoever they may be." 

"You have more spirit than many men; you are waiting calmly for 
justice." 

"Justice! If there were such a thing as justice I should not be in your 
power at this very time. Should an iniquitous proceeding lead me to 
the scaffold I should mount it as firmly and quietly as I am now going to 
prison. I groan for my country. I regret the mistakes which made 
me think her fit for liberty and happiness; but I value life; I fear nothing 
but crime; I despise injustice and death." 

These poor commissioners did not understand much of this language, 
and probably thought it very aristocratic. 

We arrived at the Abbaye, that theater of the bloody scenes the rep- 
etition of which the Jacobins have advocated for some time with so 
much fervor. Five or six camp-beds occupied by as many men in a dark 
room, were the first objects that attracted my notice. After we had 
passed the grating they got up and began to move, and my guides made 
me mount a narrow and dirty staircase. We reached the keeper's room, 
a kind of little drawing room, pretty clean, where he offered me a couch. 

"Where is my room?" I asked his wife, a fat person with a kind 
face. 

"Madam, I did not expect you; I have nothing ready, but you can stay 
here while you are waiting." 

The commissioners entered the next room, had their orders entered, 
and gave their oral instructions. I learned afterwards that they were very 
strict, and that they had them renewed several times later, but did not 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 251 

dare to put them on paper. The keeper knew his trade too well to fulfil 
to the very letter what was not obligatory; he is an honest, active, 
obliging man, who mingles witl^ the exercise of his functions all that jus- 
tice and moderation could desire. 

"What would you like for your breakfast?" 

"Some tea." 

The commissioners withdrew, telling me that if Roland were not guilty 
he would not have absented himself. 

"It is exceedingly strange that they can suspect such a man; one who 
has rendered such great services to liberty. It is extremely odious to see 
a minister calumniated and persecuted with such rancour, whose conduct 
is so open, whose accounts are so clear, that he ought not to have been 
obliged to save himself from the extreme excesses of envy. Just as 
Aristides, severe as Cato: these are the virtues that have made him ene- 
mies. Their rage knows no bounds; let it practise all its cruelty on me; 
I brave it and I sacrifice myself; he, he ought to preserve himself for his 
country, to which he can still render great services." 

An embarrassed bow was the answer of these gentlemen. They went 
away. I breakfasted while the bedroom that I was to have was hastily 
prepared. 

"You will be able, madam, to remain here all day; and if I cannot get 
a place ready for you this evening — for there are a great many people 
here — a bed will be put up in the drawing room." 

The wife of the keeper, who spoke to me thus, added some kind re- 
marks on the regret she always felt when she saw people of her own sex 
come in; " for," she added, " they do not all look as calm as Madam does." 

I thanked her, smiling; she shut me in. "Here I am, then, in prison," 
I said to myself. 

The agitation in which I had passed the preceding evening made me 
feel extremely tired; I longed to have a room. That very night I ob- 
tained one, and took possession of it at ten o'clock. When I found my- 
self between four tolerably dirty walls, in the middle of which was a com- 
mon bedstead without curtains, when I saw a double-grated window, 
and when I was struck with that smell that a person accustomed to a 
very clean room always finds in those that are not, I was very sensible 
that it was a prison I was going to inhabit and that it was not a place 
where I might expect anything pleasant. However, the space was pretty 
large, and there was a chimney; the counterpane was tolerable; they gave 
me a pillow; and by considering these things without making any com- 
parisons I came to the conclusion that I was not badly off. I went to 
bed, quite resolved to remain there as long as I was comfortable. 



252 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

A group of scientists added to the sum of eighteenth cen- 
tury literature as well as to the field of endeavor to which 
they were more directly attached. The most prominent was 
the Comte de Buffon (1707-1788) who is classed with 
Montesquieu, Rousseau and Voltaire in the quartette of the 
century's greatest writers, and he modestly classed himself 
with Newton, Bacon, Leibnitz and Montesquieu as one of 
the world's greatest men. He travelled in Italy, lived in 
England, studied Newton, was given charge of the Royal 
Gardens in Paris, and wrote many volumes on the life and 
habits of quadrupeds and birds, on minerals, on the origins 
of the earth and of man. His style is simple and dignified, 
his descriptions close, his theories advanced and so far from 
unreasonable that many of them have been accepted as true. 
Both as a scientist and a literary man he was regarded almost 
with reverence. Here is his description of 

THE HUMMING-BIRD 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature**) 

Of all animated beings this is the most elegant in form and the most 
brilliant in colors. The stones and metals polished by our arts are not 
comparable to this jewel of Nature. She has placed it least in size of the 
order of birds, maxime miranda in minimis. Her masterpiece is the little 
humming-bird, and upon it she has heaped all the gifts which the other 
birds may only share. Lightness, rapidity, nimbleness, grace, and rich 
apparel all belong to this little favorite. The emerald, the ruby, and the 
topaz gleam upon its dress. It never soils them with the dust of earth, 
and in its aerial life scarcely touches the turf an instant. Always in the 
air, flying from flower to flower, it has their freshness as well as their 
brightness. It lives upon their nectar, and dwells only in the climates 
where they perennially bloom. 

All kinds of humming-birds are found in the hottest countries of the 
New World. They are quite numerous and seem to be confined between 
the two tropics, for those which penetrate the temperate zones in summer 
only stay there a short time. They seem to follow the sun in its advance 
and retreat; and to fly on the wing of zephyrs after an eternal spring. 

The smaller species of the humming-birds are less in size than the 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 253 

great fly wasp, and more slender than the drone. Their beak is a fine 
needle and their tongue a slender thread. Their little black eyes are like 
two shining points, and the feathers of their wings so delicate that they 
seem transparent. Their short feet, which they use very little, are so 
tiny one can scarcely see them. They alight only at night, resting in the 
air during the day. They have a swift continual humming flight. The 
movement of their wings is so rapid that when pausing in the air, the 
bird seems quite motionless. One sees him stop before a blossom, then 
dart like a flash to another, visiting all, plunging his tongue into their 
hearts, flattening them with his wings, never settling anywhere, but 
neglecting none. He hastens his inconstancies only to pursue his loves 
more eagerly and to multiply his innocent joys. For this light lover of 
flowers lives at their expense without ever blighting them. He only 
pumps their honey, and to this alone his tongue seems destined. 

The vivacity of these small birds is only equaled by their courage, or 
rather their audacity. Sometimes they may be seen chasing furiously 
birds twenty times their size, fastening upon their bodies, letting them- 
selves be carried along in their flight, while they peck them fiercely until 
their tiny rage is satisfied. Sometimes they fight each other vigorously. 
Impatience seems their very essence. If they approach a blossom and 
find it faded, they mark their spite by hasty rending of the petals. Their 
only voice is a weak cry, "screp, screp," frequent and repeated, which 
they utter in the woods from dawn, until at the first rays of the sun they 
all take flight and scatter over the country. 

Linnaeus the botanist, Galvani the physicist and our own 
Franklin who both made a study of electricity, were among 
the writers on scientific subjects, but their work is more 
technical than literary. 

The most important writers of this century are those whose 
discussions of political and governmental science, of eco- 
nomics, of philosophy, and of religion crystallized popular 
thought into understanding and understanding into action — 
the fearful action of the Revolution. 

To understand their fervor it is well to return once again 
to the beginning of the century when the House of Hanover 
came to the throne of a united England and Scotland and 
the five year old Louis XV ascended the throne of France. 



254 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

England was astir with Stuart sympathizers and she was 
heavily taxed to pay for her share in the continental wars, 
yet her condition, though disturbed, was by no means 
wretched. France, on the other hand, was crippled in every 
limb, and she found no skilful surgeon in the regent. Louis 
was declared of age when he became thirteen in 1723, and he 
promptly added to the country's suffering by ordering the 
persecution of the Huguenots, always a thrifty element 
worthy of conciliation. Once more the tax-gatherers were 
instructed to levy for the support of the armies which Louis 
put into the field in the wars of the Polish Succession and the 
Austrian Succession. Toward the middle of the century a 
few years of peace gave a chance for a growth of trade, but all 
too soon France found herself embroiled again, this time 
with England and Austria on the continent, and with Eng- 
land in India and in America. France lost in every instance. 
Louis XV had been reared in his great-grandfather's belief 
in the divine right of kings. He did not share his great- 
grandfather's pride in promoting the glory of France. His 
only idea was to keep the old ship from sinking during his 
day. " After us, the deluge," he said, for the approach of the 
deluge was evident even to his careless eyes. The logical 
outcome of his sincere acceptance of his divine mission was 
that he felt himself outraged by any smallest hint of opposi- 
tion. He abolished the Parliaments (courts) in Paris and the 
provinces and punished their members, practically the only 
people in France who were making even a feeble attempt to 
secure justice or to better conditions. The king looked on his 
subjects as so many chattels to be turned into money for his 
use in some way even if that way was selling them into prison 
at the expense of a creditor or enemy. His crowning infamy 
was the replenishment of his purse by the cornering of the 
country's grain supply, with its resulting famine and forced 
purchase of food at high prices. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 255 

It was said in a previous chapter that the seventeenth 
century developed the literary qualities peculiar to France 
and the eighteenth century her soul — the spirit of liberty, and 
of brotherhood. This development resulted from one of the 
most cruel periods of growth that ever land endured. There 
comes a time when the beaten dog's very misery teaches him 
to use his teeth for protection and retaliation. In Louis XIV's 
time the "Glory of France" had been a slogan that deceived 
even the sufferers; Louis XV betrayed his trust so grossly 
that no patriotic cry could carry deception. Fenelon's 
political suggestions were developed and expanded by 
Montesquieu (1689-1755) whose " Spirit of Laws" made a 
logical appeal for a constitutional government as against 
absolutism, illustrating his argument by the case of England. 
His usually dignified style offered discussion of the inter- 
relations of social life and the influence upon it of environ- 
ment and custom that never had been made before and never 
has been equalled since in completeness of material or ability 
of presentation. 

The idea of Montesquieu's colossal "Spirit of Laws" came 
to him while he was writing the "Persian Letters" in which 
three travellers from the East comment with entire and 
caustic freedom on the manners, morals and politics of 
France. That the subjects were boldly chosen is shown by 
this description of Louis XIV. 

The King of France is old. We have no instance in our history of a 
monarch who reigned so long. They say that he possesses to a high de- 
gree the ability to make himself obeyed; with the same skill he governs 
his family, his court, his state. He has often been heard to say that of all 
the governments of the world that of the Turks or of our august sultan 
pleased him best, so high is his opinion of oriental politics. I have studied 
his character and I have found contradictions impossible for me to recon- 
cile; for instance, he has a minister but eighteen years old and a favorite 
of eighty. He likes to gratify those who serve him, but he pays as liber- 
ally for the attentions, or, rather, the idleness of his courtiers as for the 



256 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

toilsome campaigns of his captains; often he prefers a man who attends 
upon his toilet or who hands him his napkin when he sits at table to some 
other who captures cities or gains battles for him. 

His contemplation of France and her conditions led Mon- 
tesquieu to a consideration of their causes, and he extended 
his survey to include the laws of government, of liberty, 
of natural physical advantages and disadvantages, of in- 
dividual liberty, of economic relations, and of religion. His 
views, tempered by the observations of intelligent travel, 
are sane and lenient. He was as popular as Voltaire, and 
more respected. His style is not always free from the vul- 
garity which most writers of the period employed either to 
attract attention or because, in accordance with the trend of 
the time, they confused liberty with license in matters of 
expression as they did in religion and in morals. An example 
of Montesquieu's simplicity and clearness when free from 
this fault is to be found in his discussion of 

THE SPIRIT OF TRADE 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Commerce is a cure for the most destructive prejudices: for it is almost 
a general rule, that wherever we find agreeable manners, there commerce 
flourishes; and that wherever there is commerce, there we meet with 
agreeable manners. 

Let us not be astonished, then, if our manners are now less savage than 
formerly. Commerce has everywhere diffused a knowledge of the man- 
ners of all nations; these are compared one with another; and from this 
comparison arise the greatest advantages. 

Commercial laws, it may be said, improve manners for the same reason 
as they destroy them. They corrupt the purest morals; this was the sub- 
ject of Plato's complaints; and we every day see that they polish and 
refine the most barbarous. 

Peace is the natural effect of trade. Two nations who traffic with each 
other become reciprocally dependent; for if one has an interest in buy- 
ing, the other has an interest in selling; and thus their union is founded 
on their mutual necessities. 

But if the spirit of commerce unites nations, it does not in the same 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUS SION-THE EIGHTEENTH 257 

manner unite individuals. We see that in countries where the people 
are moved only by the spirit of commerce, they make a traffic of all the 
humane, all the moral virtues: the most trifling things — those which 
humanity itself demands — are there done or there given only for money. 

The spirit of trade produces in the mind of man a certain sense of ex- 
act justice; opposite on the one hand to robbery, and on the other to 
those moral virtues which forbid our always adhering rigidly to the rules 
of private interest, and suffer us to neglect this for the advantage of 
others. 

The total privation of trade, on the contrary, produces robbery; which 
Aristotle ranks in the number of means of acquiring, yet it is not at all 
inconsistent with certain moral virtues. Hospitality, for instance, is 
most rare in trading countries, while it is found in the most admirable 
perfection among nations of vagabonds. 

Voltaire (1694-1778) also quoted England as the country 
at that time most advanced in democracy. It must indeed 
have seemed a land of liberty to people deprived of every one 
of the rights which Voltaire mentions among a nation's 

* DESIDERATA 

This is the point reached by English legislation: it gives every man his 
natural rights of which he is despoiled in almost all monarchies. These 
rights are: — entire liberty of person and property; of speech to the nation 
by means of his pen; of being judged in criminal cases only by a jury of 
independent men; of being judged in any case only according to the exact 
terms of the law; of professing without molestation whatever religion 
he wishes, as long as he gives up occupations in which only members 
of the Established Church are employed. These are called prerogatives. 
And indeed it is a very great and very happy prerogative, above those 
of many nations, to be sure when you go to bed that you will wake the 
next day with the same fortune that you possessed the evening before, 
that you will not be torn from the arms of your wife and children in the 
middle of the night to be sent to a dungeon or a desert; that when you 
rouse from sleep you shall have the power to publish everything you 
think; that if you are accused, whether for having behaved or spoken 
or written ill you shall be judged only in accordance with law. ... I 
venture to say that if the human race should be assembled for the making 
of laws it is thus that it would make them for its own surety. 

♦From " Philosophical Dictionary" (1771) article on " Government." 



258 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

It is clear that men were growing bold or they would not 
have dared so to praise a country which had been France's 
enemy with but short intervals of peace for four centuries. 
The nobleman who ventured such ideas in the Grand Mon- 
arch's day would have had short shrift; now a plebeian made 
such assertions and worse. Almost a decade before Voltaire 
set down his Desiderata he had pronounced in favor of a 
republic. In 1762 he wrote: 

* There has never been a perfect government because men have pas- 
sions; and if they had no passions there would be no need of governments. 
The most tolerable of all governments is undoubtedly the republican 
because that is the one which brings men closest in natural equality. 
Every father of a family should be master in his own house and not in 
his neighbor's. Since a community is made up of several houses and of 
the several pieces of land attached to them, it is a contradiction for one 
man to be the master of these houses and lands; and it is natural that 
every master should have his say for the good of the community. 

Should those in the community who have neither land nor house have 
a vote? They have no more right than a clerk in the pay of merchants 
would have to regulate their business; but they may be associated either 
by rendering service or by paying for their association. 

Voltaire was strongly impressed by the philosophic and 
economic thought which he found in England, and his out- 
put in its wide variety of literary criticism, religion, philo- 
sophic and political speculation, drama, letters, satires, de- 
veloped one and another phase in which he happened to be 
interested at the moment. His style was striking, his irony 
both keen and amusing, two appeals which made everything 
he wrote read both by admirers and foes. That he worked 
drifts of the solid body of ore which Montesquieu presented 
in its rich entirety was the natural expression of a tempera- 
ment brilliant and restless rather than soberly capable of 
sustained effort. Undoubtedly he has been far more widely 
read than has Montesquieu. 

* From article on " Republican Ideas." 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 259 

Last of the four superlative writers of the century, and the 
most powerful because he appealed to the heart as well as the 
head, was Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778). He was a 
Genevese of uneven character and irregular life, whose im- 
agination produced works whose value he himself probably 
did not realize and whose influence not only was one of the 
potent causes of the Revolution, but, oddly enough in the 
light of his own life, aroused a love of clean living and think- 
ing and speech which w T ent far to banish the prevalent vul- 
garity. It laid its hand, too, upon the literature of the next 
century with a decided impulse toward Romanticism. 

Rousseau first attracted attention by several articles as- 
serting that pursuit of the arts and sciences had had an evil 
effect upon human development because by the side of their 
high coloring the pursuit of morality was but a drab affair. 
The " Social Contract" whose principles were quoted and 
misquoted as bases of the Revolution, declared that there 
was just cause of revolution when either party to the implied 
contract — whereby the strong cherished the w r eak and the 
weak were subservient to the strong — broke the contract. 

I suppose men to have reached that point where the obstacles that 
harm their preservation in their natural state by their resistance pre- 
vail over the forces which each individual can employ to maintain him- 
self in this state. Then this primitive state can no longer endure and 
the human species would perish if it did not change its mode of life. 

Now, since men cannot bring new forces into being, but can only bring 
together and direct those which exist, they have no longer any means 
of preserving themselves other than by forming by means of aggregation 
a sum of forces which can prevail over the resistance, by putting them 
into action by a single motion, and by making them act in concert. 

This sum of forces can be brought into being only by the cooperation 
of many; but since the strength and liberty of each man are the first 
instruments of his preservation, how shall he pledge them without in- 
juring himself, without neglecting the duties which he owes himself? 
This difficulty, leading again to my subject can be expressed in these 
terms. 



260 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"To find a form of association which defends and protects with the 
entire force of the community the person and property of each member, 
and by which each one, uniting himself to all, nevertheless obeys only 
himself, and remains as free as before." Such is the fundamental prob- 
lem to which the social contract gives the solution. 

The clauses of this contract are so determined by the nature of the 
instrument, that the least modification would render them void and 
of no effect; in such a manner that, although they have never perhaps 
been formally expressed, they are, nevertheless, everywhere the same, 
everywhere tacitly admitted and recognized, so that, the social contract 
being violated, each one returns then to his original rights, and resumes 
his natural liberty, while losing the conventional liberty for which it 
was renounced. 

These clauses, clearly, all reduce themselves to a single one: to wit, 
the total relinquishment of all his rights of each member to the whole 
community; for, first of all, every one giving himself completely, the 
condition is equal for all; and the condition being equal for all no one is 
desirous of making it onerous for the others. 

Moreover, the relinquishment being made without reserve, the union 
is as perfect as possible, and no member has any longer anything to lay 
claim to; for if there remained some rights belonging to certain of them, 
as there would be no common superior who could give judgment be- 
tween them and the public, each one, being on some special point his 
own judge, would soon attempt to be judge on all; the state of nature 
would prevail, and the association would necessarily become tyrannical 
or empty. 

Finally each one giving himself to all gives himself to nobody; and as 
there is no member over whom one does not acquire the same right that 
one yields to him over himself, one gains the equivalent of all that one 
loses, and more strength to protect what one possesses. 

If then one sifts out of the social contract all that is not essential in 
character we find that it is reduced to the following terms: Each one 
of us gives to the common stock his person and all his power to be used under 
the supreme direction of the general will; and further, we receive each member 
as an indivisible part of the whole. 

"Back to Nature" was Rousseau's cry, yet simplicity of 
life and thought did not, with him, mean action according to 
the inclination of the individual, for he held that freedom of 
speech, religious liberty and political tolerance should all be 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 261 

subordinated to the "general will," which, if necessary, 
should insist on what it regarded as breadth of view. 

"Emile" laid down principles of education which have 
been followed by Pestalozzi and studied by all modern edu- 
cators. It included (in the " Profession of Faith of a Savoyard 
Vicar") an explanation of Rousseau's religious belief which 
held enough of the fundamentals not to be looked upon as 
especially shocking today, but which succeeded then in 
arousing both religionists and materialists. "Smile" also 
contained much simple good sense. 

* You also see that an explanation which I can give in writing in a 
couple of pages may take a year in practice, for in the course of moral 
ideas we cannot advance too slowly, nor plant each step too firmly. 
Young teacher, pray consider this example, and remember that your 
lessons should always be in deeds rather than words, for children soon 
forget what they say or what is said to them, but not what they have 
done nor what has been done to them. 

Such teaching should be given, as I have said, sooner or later, as the 
scholar's disposition, gentle or turbulent, requires it. The way of using 
it is unmistakable; but to omit no matter of importance in a difficult 
business let us take another example. 

Your ill-tempered child destroys everything he touches. Do not vex 
yourself; put anything he can spoil out of his reach. He breaks the 
things he is using; do not be in a hurry to give him more; let him feel 
the want of them. He breaks the windows of his room; let the wind 
blow upon him night and day, and do not be afraid of his catching cold; 
it is better to catch cold than to be reckless. Never complain of the in- 
convenience he causes you, but let him feel it first. At last you will have 
the windows mended without saying anything. He breaks them again; 
then change your plan; tell him dryly and without anger, "The windows 
are mine, I took pains to have them put in, and I mean to keep them 
safe." Then you will shut him up in a dark place without a window. At 
this unexpected proceeding he cried and howls; no one heeds. Soon 
he gets tired and changes his tone; he laments and sighs; a servant ap- 
pears, the rebel begs to be let out. Without seeking any excuse for 
refusing, the servant merely says, "I, too, have windows to keep," and 
goes away. At last, when the child has been there several hours, long 
* Translation by Barbara Foxley. 



262 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

enough to get very tired of it, long enough to make an impression on his 
memory, some one suggests to him that he should offer to make terms 
with you, so that you may set him free and he will never break windows 
again. That is just what he wants. He will send and ask you to come 
and see him; you will come, he will suggest his plan, and you will agree 
to it at once, saying, "That is a very good idea; it will suit us both; why 
didn't you think of it sooner?" Then without asking for any affirma- 
tion or confirmation of his promise, you will embrace him joyfully and 
take him back at once to his own room, considering this agreement 
as sacred as if he had confirmed it by a formal oath. What idea do 
you think he will form from these proceedings, as to the fulfilment of a 
promise and its usefulness? If I am not greatly mistaken, there is not a 
child upon earth, unless he is utterly spoilt already, who could resist this 
treatment, or one who would ever dream of breaking windows again on 
purpose. Follow out the whole train of thought. The naughty little fel- 
low hardly thought when he was making a hole for his beans that he was 
hewing out a cell in which his own knowledge would soon imprison him.* 

We are now in the world of morals, the door to vice is open. Deceit 
and falsehood are born along with conventions and duties. As soon as 
we can do what we ought not to do, we try to hide what we ought not 
to have done. As soon as self-interest makes us give a promise, a greater 
interest may make us break it; it is merely a question of doing it with 
impunity; we naturally take refuge in concealment and falsehood. As 
we have not been able to prevent vice, we must punish it. The sorrows 
of life begin with its mistakes. 

I have already said enough to show that children should never receive 
punishment merely as such; it should always come as the natural conse- 
quence of their fault. Thus you will not exclaim against their falsehood, 
you will not exactly punish them for lying, but you will arrange that all 
the ill effects of lying, such as not being believed when we speak the 
truth, or being accused of what we have not done in spite of our pro- 
tests, shall fall on their heads when they have told a lie. But let us ex- 
plain what lying means to the child. 

There are two kinds of lies; one concerns an accomplished fact, the 

* Moreover if the duty of keeping his word were not established in the child's mind 
by its own utility, the child's growing consciousness would soon impress it on him as a 
law of conscience, as an innate principle, only requiring suitable experiences for its de- 
velopment. This first outline is not sketched by man, it is engraved on the heart by the 
author of all justice. Take away the primitive law of contract and the obligation im- 
posed by contract and there is nothing left of human society but vanity and empty show. 
He who only keeps his word because it is to his own profit is hardly more pledged than if 
he had given no promise at all. This principle is of the utmost importance, and deserves 
to be thoroughly studied, for man is now beginning to be at war with himself. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 263 

other concerns a future duty. The first occurs when we falsely deny 
or assert that we did or did not do something, or, to put it in general 
terms, when we knowingly say what is contrary to facts. The other 
occurs when we promise what we do not mean to perform, or, in general 
terms, when we profess an intention which we do not really mean to 
carry out. These two kinds of lie are sometimes found in combination,* 
but their differences are my present business. 

He who feels the need of help from others, he who is constantly ex- 
periencing their kindness, has nothing to gain by deceiving them; it 
is plainly to his advantage that they should see things as they are, lest 
they should mistake his interests. It is therefore plain that lying with 
regard to actual facts is not natural to children, but lying is made nec- 
essary by the law of obedience; since obedience is disagreeable, children 
disobey as far as they can in secret, and the present good of avoiding 
punishment or reproof outweighs the remoter good of speaking the truth. 
Under a free and natural education why should your child lie? What 
has he to conceal from you? You do not thwart him, you do not punish 
him, you demand nothing from him. Why should he not tell everything 
to you as simply as to his little playmate? He cannot see anything more 
risky in the one course than in the other. 

The lie concerning duty is even less natural, since promises to do or 
refrain from doing are conventional agreements which are outside the 
state of nature and detract from our liberty. Moreover, all promises 
made by children are in themselves void; when they pledge themselves 
they do not know what they are doing, for their narrow vision cannot 
look beyond the present. A child can hardly lie when he makes a promise; 
for he is only thinking how he can get out of the present difficulty, any 
means which has not an immediate result is the same to him; when he 
promises for the future he promises nothing, and his imagination is as 
yet incapable of projecting him into the future while he lives in the 
present. If he could escape a whipping or get a packet of sweets by 
promising to throw himself out of the window to-morrow, he would 
promise on the spot. This is why the law disregards all promises made 
by minors, and when fathers and teachers are stricter and demand that 
promises shall be kept, it is only when the promise refers to something 
the child ought to do even if he had made no promise. 

The child cannot lie when he makes a promise, for he does not know 
what he is doing when he makes his promise. The case is different 

* Thus the guilty person, accused of some evil deed, defends himself by asserting that 
he is a good man. His statement is false in itself and false in its application to the matter 
in hand. 



264 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

when he breaks his promise, which is a sort of retrospective falsehood; 
for he clearly remembers making the promise, but he fails to see the 
importance of keeping it. Unable to look into the future, he cannot 
foresee the results of things, and when he breaks his promises he does 
nothing contrary to his stage of reasoning. 

Children's lies are therefore entirely the work of their teachers, and 
to teach them to speak the truth is nothing less than to teach them the 
art of lying. In your zeal to rule, control, and teach them, you never 
find sufficient means at your disposal. You wish to gain fresh influence 
over their minds by baseless maxims, by unreasonable precepts; and you 
would rather they knew their lessons and told lies, than leave them ig- 
norant and truthful. 

We, who only give our scholars lessons in practice, who prefer to have 
them good rather than clever, never demand the truth lest they should 
conceal it, and never claim any promise lest they should be tempted to 
break it. If some mischief has been done in my absence and I do not 
know who did it, I shall take care not to accuse Emile, nor to say, "Did 
you do it?" * For in so doing what should I do but teach him to deny 
it? If his difficult temperament compels me to make some agreement 
with him, I will take good care that the suggestion always comes from 
him, never from me; that when he undertakes anything he has always a 
present and effective interest in fulfilling his promise, and if he ever 
fails this lie will bring down on him all the unpleasant consequences 
which he sees arising from the natural order of things, and not from his 
tutor's vengeance. But far from having recourse to such cruel measures, 
I feel almost certain that Emile will not know for many years what it 
is to lie, and that when he does find out, he will be astonished and unable 
to understand what can be the use of it. It is quite clear that the less 
I make his welfare dependent on the will or the opinions of others, the 
less is it to his interest to lie. 

When we are in no hurry to teach there is no hurry to demand, and we 
can take our time, so as to demand nothing except under fitting condi- 
tions. Then the child is training himself, in so far as he is not being 
spoilt. But when a fool of a tutor, who does not know how to set about 
his business, is always making his pupil promise first this and then that, 
without discrimination, choice, or proportion, the child is puzzled and 
overburdened with all these promises, and neglects, forgets or even 

♦Nothing could be more indiscreet than such a question, especially If the child is 
guilty. Then if he thinks you know what he has done, he will think you are setting a 
trap for him, and this idea can only set him against you. If he thinks you do not know, 
he will say to himself, " Why should I make my fault known? " And here we have the 
first temptation to falsehood as the direct result of your foolish question. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 265 

scorns them, and considering them as so many empty phrases he makes 
a game of making and breaking promises. Would you have him keep 
his promise faithfully, be moderate in your claims upon him. 

The "New Heloise" showed an appreciation of women's 
intelligence and abilities which won the sex to Rousseau's 
standard, while his description of natural beauties stirred 
what really amounted to a cult with its own value, though 
inclined to the sentimental and to a support of the larmoyante 
(tearful) drama. Few men ever have had influence in so 
many directions and that in spite of living a life whose almost 
every practice was in opposition to his preaching. Rousseau's 
career is a triumph of intellect and imagination. Of course 
his novel ideas stirred opposition as well as approval and the 
conservative element harried him into practical exile in 
England and drove him from one spot to another when he 
returned to France. 

Back of the magnificent work of these outstanding figures 
was the huge mass of polemic and argumentative writing 
which the men nicknamed the "Philosophers" poured forth 
in popular form, and gathered in the Encyclopedia. The 
convenience of a survey of literature, history, or science has 
always appealed to the French mind. The massive under- 
taking of the eighteenth century w T as not the first of the sort. 
It had had at least three predecessors. The latest, called the 
"Historical and Critical Dictionary" was the work of Pierre 
Bayle (1647-1706) and it introduced the philosophic dis- 
cussions which were developed by the later Encyclopedists 
in support of the philosophic and economic writers whose 
arguments drew the Revolution to a head. Denis Diderot 
(1713-1784) was editor-in-chief — a man of brilliant and 
varied parts, not always a steady thinker but invariably a 
facile writer on politics, religion, drama, education, art — the 
list is almost as long as the subjects treated in the thirty-five 
volumes of the colossal work. 



266 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

His opinion of Rousseau makes interesting reading. 

Letter to Mile. Voland, 1762 

Rousseau, concerning whom you still speak, is making a fine uproar 
in Geneva. The people, irritated by the presumption both of the author 
and of his works, made a great mob and unanimously declared to the 
consistory of ministers that the Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar 
was theirs. Well, well! there is a trifling event for you, nothing in itself, 
which must have caused 20,000 souls to abjure the Christian religion 
in one day. Oh! what a good comedy this world would be if one were 
not playing a part in it; if one existed, for example, at some point of 
space in that portion betwixt the celestial orbs where sleep the gods of 
Epicurus, very, very far away, whence one would look upon this globe 
on which we walk so haughtily, no larger in all than a lemon, and whence 
one would observe with a telescope the infinite multitude of diverse 
manners of all these two-legged insects whom one calls manikins! I 
want to see scenes of life only in miniature, so that those which are 
atrocious may be reduced to an inch of space and to the size of actors 
but half a line in height, and then they would not longer inspire me with 
feelings of horror or with violent grief. But is it not a very queer thing 
that the aversion which injustice causes us should be a matter of size 
and of masses? I become greatly angered if a large animal unjustly 
attacks another. I experience no feelings if they are two atoms who 
wound one another. What an influence our feelings have over our morals ! 
That's a fine text to philosophize over! What say you, Uranie? 

It is precisely because this Profession of Faith is a kind of nonsensical 
rubbish that the heads of people are turned by it. Reason, which pre- 
sents nothing strange and new, does not sufficiently astonish one, and 
the people wish to be astonished. 

I see Rousseau investigating on all sides a Capuchin friary where he 
will thrust himself some of these days. Nothing persists in his mind; 
he is a man of immoderate ideas, who is tossed about from atheism to 
the baptism of the bells. Who knows where he will stop? 

Jean-le-Rond d'Alembert (-1717-1783) who gained his 
baptismal name from the fact that he was a foundling picked 
up on the steps of the church of St. John-the-Round, wrote 
for the Encyclopedia the mathematical articles, the opening 
essay, and a famous article on Geneva which provoked a reply 
from Rousseau. A few paragraphs from d'Alembert's com- 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 267 

parison of Massillon and Bourdaloue will give an idea of his 
critical power. 

Massillon is often compared with Bourdaloue, as Cicero is compared 
with Demosthenes or Racine with Corneille. This sort of comparison, 
fertile in contrasts, only proves that the writer has greater or less skill 
in making them. We shall not allow ourselves these commonplaces 
and we shall limit ourselves to a single reflection. When Bourdaloue 
appeared the pulpit was still barbarous, competing, as Massillon himself 
says, with the theater in buffoonery, and with the school in dryness. 
The Jesuit orator was the first to discuss religion in a language worthy 
of her; he was solid, veracious, and especially severe and compelling in 
his logic. 

If he who first enters upon a path has many thorns to uproot he enjoys 
on the other hand, a great advantage in that his steps are more deeply 
marked and on that account more celebrated than those of all his suc- 
cessors. The public, accustomed for a long time to the reign of Bourda- 
loue who had been the first object of its worship, was long persuaded, 
especially while Massillon was living, that he could have no rival, and 
that Bourdaloue from his tomb heard that the cry of the multitude was 
no longer in his favor. At last Death, which brings Justice in his train, 
put the two orators in their due places, and Envy, which had taken his 
from Massillon can now return it to him without fear of his rejoicing 
over it. However, we shall abstain from giving him a preeminence which 
grave judges doubt; Bourdaloue's greatest glory is that he still disputes 
superiority with Massillon. But if it were to be decided by counting 
the number of their readers Massillon would have the advantage; Bour- 
daloue is no longer read except by preachers, or the pious; his rival is 
in the hands of everybody who reads at all. . . . 

If, however, one were trying to lay down some sort of comparison of 
these two illustrious orators, one might say with a certain man of wit, 
that Bourdaloue had greater reasoning power and that Massillon was 
the more appealing. An excellent sermon in every respect would be one 
in which Bourdaloue had attended to this first quality and Massillon 
to the second. Perhaps a more perfect discourse still would be one where 
they did not appear thus consecutively, but where their united talents 
interpenetrate, so to speak, and the dialectician should be at once pathetic 
and logical. 

Jean Francois Marmontel (1723-1799), best known as 
a literary critic, was the author of most of the Encyclopedia's 



268 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

articles on literature. He was a man of accomplishment in 
other lines, too, for he was the editor of the "Mercure de 
France" and the author of charming " Memoirs" from which 
the following extract is taken. Knowing the misery of France 
at this time it is relieving to think that there might be house- 
holds where poverty did not spell wretchedness. 

Add to the household my grandmother's three sisters and my mother's 
sister — the aunt who is still left to me. It was in the midst of these 
women and of a swarm of children that my father took his place as the 
solitary man. All this family lived on very little money. Order, economy, 
work, a little business and above all frugality kept us in ease. The small 
garden produced almost enough vegetables for the needs of the house; 
the enclosure gave us fruits, and our quinces, our apples and pears, 
honey sweets for our bees, and made most delicious breakfasts through- 
out the winter for the children and the old women. The flock of the 
sheepfold of St. Thomas provided now the women and now the children 
with woollen clothing; my aunts spun it; they spun also the hemp of 
the field which gave us cloth, and in the evening when by the light of 
lamp fed by oil from our nuts, the young people of the neighborhood 
came to strip with us this beautiful hemp, they made a lovely picture. 
The grain harvest of our little farm assured our subsistence, the wax and 
honey from the bees which one of my aunts cared for scrupulously was 
a revenue resulting from but small expense; the oil pressed from our 
nuts while they were still fresh, had a taste, a fragrance which we pre- 
ferred to the taste and perfume of olive oil. Our buckwheat cakes (called 
in the speech of the country, tourtus), moist and smoking hot, with good 
Mont d'Or butter, we considered the most royal dainty. I know not 
what dishes could have seemed better to us than our radishes and chest- 
nuts, and on winter evenings when these splendid radishes were broiling 
on the hearth or we heard the water boiling in the vessel in which these 
savory, sweet chestnuts were cooking, our hearts beat with happiness. 
I remember, too, the fragrance that a fine quince roasted beneath the 
ashes gave forth and the pleasure that our grandmother took in dividing 
it among us. 

Another Encyclopedist was Anne-Robert- Jacques Tur- 
got (1727-1781), Louis XVI's Minister of Finance and the 
author of well-considered histories and of " Reflections on the 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 269 

Formation and Distribution of Wealth/' a work of per- 
manent economic value. 

PROGRESS IN THE MIDDLE AGES 

And meanwhile from the heart of this barbarous epoch are to issue 
some day sciences and perfected arts. In the midst of ignorance an in- 
sensible progress is preparing the brilliant successes of the last centuries. 
Under this soil the feeble roots of a distant harvest are already develop- 
ing. Cities, among all civilized people, are by their nature the centre of 
commerce and of the forces of society. They continue to subsist, and 
if the spirit of the feudal government, born from ancient German cus- 
toms, combined with accidental circumstances had humbled them, 
there was in the constitution of the states a contradiction which would 
remedy this in the long run. I see ere long cities being raised up under 
the protection of princes, who, stretching out their hands to an oppressed 
nation, will diminish the power of their vessels, and increase little by 
little that of the people. 

Already we see theToyal authority reborn in France; the power of the 
people established in England; the cities of Italy formed into republics 
and presenting the appearance of ancient Greece; the small monarchies 
of Spain driving the Moors before them, and uniting little by little into 
a single nation. 

Soon the seas which until then had divided the nations, become through 
the invention of the compass, their bond. The Portuguese in the Orient 
and the Spanish in the Occident discover new worlds. The globe is at 
last known. Already the mixture of barbaric tongues with Latin has 
produced new languages in the course of centuries; while Italian, less 
distant from their common source, less mingled with strange tongues, 
is raised to the first place in elegance of style and beauty of poetry. The 
Ottomans spread over Asia and Europe like an impetuous wind, have 
succeeded in conquering the empire of Constantinople and are dispersing 
throughout the Occident the feeble sparks of the sciences that Greece 
still preserves. 

Quotations possible to the limits of this volume can give 
no real idea of the spirit of the philosophic writers of this 
period. The country's state — of poverty, of bigotry, of cor- 
ruption, of mal-administration, of brutality — was one to 



270 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

warrant the gravest fears. These men saw its danger and 
they consciously set themselves to arouse a public opinion 
which should demand reforms, trusting that when the hour 
came the necessary men of affairs would come with it. They 
found a thinking public, eager to read Voltaire's appeals to 
reason, willing to study Condorcet's (i 743-1 794) exposition 
of liberalism and democracy, sensitive to the imaginative 
urging of Rousseau. They poured forth argument whose 
acceptance they believed would release men from enslave- 
ment to cruelty and superstition and avarice. 

One of Condorcet's optimistic theories concerned the per- 
fectibility of the human race. Its argument ran like this: 

The possibility of the process of organic perfection or degeneration of 
races whether in the vegetable or animal kingdom may be regarded as 
one of the general laws of nature. 

This law embraces human kind and without doubt no one will deny 
that the progress in preventive medicine, the use of more wholesome 
food and more sensible dwelling houses, a routine of life which would 
develop strength by exercise without undermining it by overdoing, that, 
in short, the destruction of the two most active causes of degradation, 
namely excessive poverty and too great wealth, should prolong for man- 
kind the length of their lives and assure for them a more steady well- 
being and a more robust constitution. One feels that the progress of 
preventive medicine which has become more efficacious with the progress 
of reason and of social order, should cause contagious or transmissible 
diseases to disappear in the long run and also those general maladies 
which owe their origin to climates, foods, or kind of work. It would 
not be difficult to prove that this belief should extend to nearly all other 
illnesses whose distant causes we shall probably come to understand. 
Would it be absurd, then, to suppose that this perfectibility of the human 
species should be regarded as susceptible of an indefinite progress, that 
a time might arrive when death would no longer result except from extra- 
ordinary accidents or from the slower and slower destruction of vital 
forces, and that, in short, the duration of the space between birth and 
this destruction has no assignable limit? Certainly man will not become 
immortal; but cannot the interval between the moment when he com- 
mences to live and the common time when naturally, without sickness, 
without accident, he experiences difficulty in living be continually in* 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 271 

creased? Since we speak here of a progress susceptible of being repre- 
sented with precision by numerical quantities or by lines, the time has 
come where it is as well to develop the two meanings of which the word 
" indefinite' ' is susceptible. 

In fact, this mean duration of life which should continually lengthen 
according as we delve into the future, may receive continued increase 
resulting from a law such that it continually approaches an unlimited 
length without the possibility of ever attaining it; or indeed following 
a law such that this same duration may attain, in the immensity of the 
centuries, an extent greater than any determined quantity whatever 
which might be assigned to it as a limit. In this latter case the accretions 
are really indefinite in the most absolute sense since there exists no limit 
within which they must stop. 

Louis XV died in 1774. His grandson and successor, 
Louis XVI, was well-meaning but young and not forceful. 
He had the good sense to restore the parliaments, and to 
commit the finances to Turgot's administration and then to 
Necker's. Increasing indebtedness due to his support of the 
American revolutionists against England, and increasing 
disturbance at home obliged him to summon the States 
General, its first meeting in 175 years. Previously the three 
estates had met separately and had voted by classes; now, 
after some dissension, they met together and voted as in- 
dividuals. From their decision not to dissolve until they had 
adopted a written constitution they took the name of the 
National Constituent Assembly. On the 14th of July, 1789, 
the Bastille was destroyed by a mob which feared that the 
king was planning to use it to overawe the city. Its fall 
marks the beginning of the Revolution. The attack also 
instituted the orgy of force and brutality which sent to the 
guillotine the king and queen and a million of their subjects. 
The aristocrats fell first after some show of judicial condemna- 
tion; then the factions flew at each other's throats until at 
last the mere whim of an irresponsible tyrant was enough to 
cause a head to roll in the sawdust. Everything was over- 
turned; — the calendar was reorganized, the months renamed, 



272 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

religious observances were forbidden, society was disrupted, 
anarchy replaced government. 

At the very beginning of the Revolution Andr£ Chenier 
(1762-1794) floated in a calm backwater unruffled by the 
bursting storm that sent him to the guillotine. He found 
himself sufficiently calm to write about " Nature" and to 
compose idylls on Greek models. His lyrics recall Ronsard. 
Perhaps best of all his verse is the poem from which the follow- 
ing stanzas are taken: 

THE YOUNG CAPTIVE 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

"The corn in peace fills out its golden ear; 

Through the long summer days, the flowers without a fear 

Drink in the strength of noon. 
And I, a flower like them, as young, as fair, as pure, 
Though at the present hour some trouble I endure, 

I would not die so soon! 

"No, let the stoic heart call upon Death as king! 
For me, I weep and hope; before the bitter wind 

I bend like some lithe palm. 
If there be long, sad days, others are bright and fleet; 
Alas! what honeyed draught holds nothing but the sweet? 

What sea is ever calm? 

"And still within my breast nestles illusion bright; 
In vain these prison walls shut out the noonday light; 

Fair Hope has lent me wings. 
So from the fowler's net, again set free to fly, 
More swift, more joyous, through the summer sky, 

Philomel soars and sings. 

"Is it my lot to die? In peace I lay me down, 

In peace awake again, a peace nor care doth drown, 

Nor fell remorse destroy. 
My welcome shines from every morning face, 
And to these downcast souls my presence in this place 

Almost restores their joy. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 273 

"The voyage of life is but begun for me, 
And of the landmarks I must pass, I see 

So few behind me stand. 
At life's long banquet, now before me set, 
My lips have hardly touched the cup as yet 

Still brimming in my hand. 

"I only know the spring; I would see autumn brown; 
Like the bright sun, that all the seasons crown, 

I would round out my year. 
A tender flower, the sunny garden's boast, 
I have but seen the fires of morning's host; 

Would eve might find me here! 

"0 Death, canst thou not wait? Depart from me, and go 
To comfort those sad hearts whom pale despair, and woe, 

And shame, perchance have wrung. 
For me the woods still offer verdant ways, 
The Love their kisses, and the Muses praise: 

I would not die so young!" 

Thus, captive too, and sad, my lyre none the less 
Woke at the plaint of one who breathed its own distress, 

Youth in a prison cell; 
And throwing off the yoke that weighed upon me too, 
I strove in all the sweet and tender words I knew 

Her gentle grief to tell. 

Melodious witness of my captive days, 

These rhymes shall make some lover of my lays 

Seek the maid I have sung. 
Grace sits upon her brow, and all shall share, 
Who see her charms, her grief and her despair: 

They too "must die so young"! 

After Chenier the literary output of the twelve Revolu- 
tionary years is what might be expected in a time of such 
upheaval — various light and amusing forms, and oratory. 
There were novels of no importance, rhymes catching rather 
than commanding, comic operas, dramas not original but 
borrowed or paraphrased from bygone masters. Human 



274 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

nature cannot respond indefinitely to the same stimulus; 
men and women turned from scenes of hatred and blood to 
books or plays which were meant to be amusing and amusing 
only. There were grisly jokes in these " amusing" produc- 
tions — jokes about the guillotine and epigrams that must 
have made Liberty, Equality and Fraternity shudder at the 
atrocities committed in their names. But people who could 
look without agitation at the sharp descent of the knife so 
soon repeated that it was not worth while to wipe it off were 
not fastidious about the books they read or the plays they 
saw. Perfection of workmanship never died, however. It 
would take more than a Revolution to kill the " Gallic 
spirit" or the Gallic craftsmanship. Michel Jean Sedaine 
(1719-1797) was the most amusing playwright of this time, 
Ecouchard Le Brun (1729-1807) the most brilliant maker 
of epigrams. This is an often quoted example. 

"I've just been robbed." "Your trouble gives me grief." 
"My manuscripts." "I'm sorry for the thief !" 

Quite naturally declamation both on the platform and in 
newspapers was another form popular in appeal. Speakers 
inflamed passions already stirred; journalists set the match 
to trains already laid. There was small attempt at guidance 
or explanation; the days of philosophizing were over; one 
cry after another howled in the ears of a people eager for 
more and bloodier excitements — not the battle cry that 
rings of patriotism, but the shriek of a mob leader urging his 
followers to savage destruction. 

Of the men who may be called worthy orators Mirabeau 
(1749-1791), who was truly an economist and truly sincere, 
stands at the head by virtue of his incomparable eloquence 
while Danton (i 759-1 794) was more popular because of his 
persuasive power. 

The literary man seldom leads a pampered life; in the 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION— THE EIGHTEENTH 275 

eighteenth century his path was made especially thorny if he 
dabbled in politics. And who did not? Philosopher, econ- 
omist, playwright, poet — no one could resist touching on the 
affairs of the day — and when they did not they were accused 
of it. Before the Revolution the Bastille, the Abbaye and 
the Temple after its destruction, often housed men whose 
only crimes were the misuse of their pens. 

It is to the Revolution that French literature owes two of 
its best known songs. One, the " Ca Ira " (" It will succeed ") 
gained stanza after stanza to fit the various stages of the 
Revolution. A literal translation gives a totally inadequate 
idea of its swing and spirit. 

Ah, it will go, it will go, it will go! 
The people today repeat it unceasingly — 

Ah, it will go, it will go, it will go! 
In spite of mutineers all will succeed! 
Our enemies are in confusion 
And we shall sing " Alleluia! " 

Ah, it will go, it will go, it will go! 
When Boileau in days gone by talked of the clergy 
He predicted this outcome like any prophet; 
When they sing my little song 
They'll say with joy 

Ah, it will go, it will go, it will go! 
In spite of mutineers all will succeed! 

The other, the " Marseillaise " by Rouget de Lisle (1760- 
1836), an officer, has won after various ups and downs a final 
place as the national hymn of France. 

THE MARSEILLAISE 

(Translated by John Oxenford) 

Come, children of your country, come, 

New glory dawns upon the world, 
Our tyrants, rushing to their doom, 

Their bloody standards have unfurled ;, 



276 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Already on our plains we hear 
The murmurs of a savage horde; 
They threaten with the murderous sword 
Your comrades and your children dear. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 



Those banded serfs, — what would they have, 

By tyrant kings together brought? 
Whom are those fetters to enslave 

Which long ago their hands have wrought? 
You, Frenchmen, you they would enchain; 

Doth not the thought your bosoms fire? 

The ancient bondage they desire 
To force upon your necks again. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 

Those marshalled foreigners, — shall they 

Make laws to reach the Frenchman's hearth? 
Shall hireling troops who fight for pay 

Strike down our warriors to the earth? 
God ! shall we bow beneath the weight 

Of hands that slavish fetters wear? 

Shall ruthless despots once more dare 
To be the masters of our fate? 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 

Then tremble, tyrants, — traitors all, — j 

Ye, whom both friends and foes despise; 
On you shall retribution fall, 

Your crimes shall gain a worthy prize. 
Each man opposes might to might; 

And when our youthful heroes die 

Our France can well their place supply; 
We're soldiers all with you to fight. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 



THE CENTURY OF DISCUSSION-THE EIGHTEENTH 277 

Yet, generous warriors, still forbear, 

To deal on all your vengeful blows; 
The train of hapless victims spare, 

Against their will they are our foes, 
But 0, those despots stained with blood, 

Those traitors leagued with base Bouille, 

Who make their native land their prey; — 
Death to the savage tiger-brood! 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 

And when our glorious sires are dead, 

Their virtues we shall surely find 
When on the selfsame path we tread, 

And track the fame they leave behind. 
Less to survive them we desire 

Than to partake their noble grave; 

The proud ambition we shall have 
To live for vengeance or expire. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 

Come, love of country, guide us now, 

Endow our vengeful arms with might, 
And, dearest liberty, do thou 

Aid thy defenders in the fight. 
Unto our flags let victory, 

Called by thy stirring accents, haste; 

And may thy dying foes at last 
Thy triumph and our glory see. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilize the land. 



CHAPTER IX 

THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS— THE 
NINETEENTH 

At the opening of the nineteenth century France was in no 
state to encourage or to enjoy literature. Napoleon was 
steadying politics, but his methods were deadening to the 
creative impulse. Enthusiasts for the "classic" still were 
turning out prose correct but dull, rhymesters were walking 
decorously through accurately rhythmical lines, and political 
essayists were dashing off arguments and appeals which 
grew less and less forceful as Napoleon's autocratic censorship 
grew more and more smothering. During the progress of the 
wars that convulsed Europe in the first fifteen years of the 
century imagination seemed to have no play, and the reac- 
tionary period when Louis XVIII was opposing progress 
and Charles X was trying to restore absolutism was a climax 
to a time of turbulence so long that it left the literary spirit 
exhausted. Whether or not the accession in 1830 of Louis 
Philippe, the "citizen king," gave the mass of the people a 
feeling of unity and balance sufficient to make for intellectual 
regeneration it is hard to say, but it was in this year that the 
Romantic Movement was born, like Minerva, fully equipped. 

Yet it had been foreshadowed. Rousseau's descriptions 
had turned men's thoughts to Nature with appreciation of 
her possibilities not only for giving enjoyment but for fur- 
nishing "copy." He had some followers of eminence. Ber- 
nardine de St. Pierre (1737-1814) was one. He wrote 
sketches and essays on many themes, but his romance of 
"Paul and Virginia" remains popular for its story of touch- 

278 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 279 

ing affection and its pictures of tropical scenery. Here is the 
account of the storm which will recall the well-known paint- 
ing "The Storm" or "Paul and Virginia" by P. A. Cot. 

One of those summers which from time to time lay waste countries sit- 
uated within the tropics began its ravages here. It was towards the end of 
December, when the sun in Capricorn for three weeks heats the Isle of 
France with its vertical rays. The south-east wind which prevails there 
nearly the whole year through fell to a calm. Lofty whirlwinds of dust 
were raised over the roads and remained suspended in the air. On every 
side the soil cracked open and the grass was burned. Hot gusts blew fit- 
fully from the mountain sides, and most of the streams were dried up. No 
cloud rose from the sea, but, during the day, ruddy mists rose above its 
stretches and appeared at sunset like the flames of a conflagration. Even 
night brought no relief to the stifling atmosphere. The moon's red orb 
magnified out of all measure, rose from a haze-laden horizon. The herds, 
suffering on the sides of the hills, their necks stretched towards the sky, 
sniffed the air and filled the valleys with mournful bellowings. Even the 
Caflir who led them stretched himself on the earth. Everywhere the sun 
was burning hot and the thick air throbbed with the buzzing of insects 
seeking to quench their thirst in the blood of men and animals. 

Meanwhile, the excessive heat drew from the ocean vapours which hung 
over the island like a vast umbrella. The mountain peaks gathered them 
around about, and long trails of fire from time to time shot from their 
smoky craters. Soon terrific thunder reverberated through forest and plain 
and valley; frightful sheets of rain, like cataracts, fell from heaven. Foam- 
ing torrents dashed down the sides of the mountain: the bottom of the val- 
ley became a sea; the plateau where the huts rested, a little island; and 
the entrance of the valley, a sluice where earth, trees and rocks rushed along 
with the roaring torrent. 

Madame de Stael (1766-1817), bridged the century with 
St. Pierre but her influence on the literature that followed her 
is linked with that of Chateaubriand. She was the daughter 
of Necker, the banker who had been Louis XVI 's financial 
adviser, met many people of the literary world in her mother's 
salon, and married Baron de Stael-Holstein. Her marriage 
proved unhappy, and as she fell into disfavor with Napoleon 
she was forced to spend many years out of Paris. In Switzer- 



280 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

land and Italy and especially in Germany she gathered much 
information which she wove into her books. "Corinne or 
Italy" had a wide vogue in days when readers were more 
willing than they are now to have the pill of information but 
scantily sugared by fiction. The following extract will give an 
idea of the possibilities of enlightenment in " Corinne." 

Oswald and Corinne first went to the Pantheon, which is called to-day 
Sainte Marie de la Rotonde. In Italy Catholicism has everywhere become 
the heir of paganism; but the Pantheon is the only antique temple in Rome 
which is preserved entire, the only one where one can see the beauty of 
architecture of the Romans as a whole, and the peculiar character of their 
creed. Oswald and Corinne stopped at the Pantheon to admire the portico 
of the temple and its sustaining columns. 

Corinne observed to Lord Nevil that the Pantheon was constructed in 
such a manner as to appear much larger than it was. 

" The Church of St. Peter," said she, " produces quite a different effect; 
at first you believe it not so vast as it is in reality. The illusion so favorable 
to the Pantheon comes, we are assured, because there is more space be- 
tween the columns, and the light has free play about it; but above all 
because almost no ornamental details are to be seen, while St. Peter is 
overloaded with them. It is in this way that ancient art outlined great 
masses and left the filling in of details to the imagination of those persons 
who looked at it. We moderns in every way say too much." 

" This temple," Corinne went on, "was consecrated by Agrippa, the 
favorite of Augustus, to his friend or rather his master. This master how- 
ever had the modesty to refuse the dedication of the temple; and Agrippa 
found himself obliged to dedicate it to all the Gods of Olympus, to replace 
the god of the earth — power. There was a bronze chariot at the peak of 
the Pantheon, on which the statues of Augustus and Agrippa were placed. 
On each side of the portico these same statues were found in another form; 
and on the frontispiece of the temple one still reads: AGRIPPA CONSE- 
CRATED IT. Augustus gave his name to his century, because he made 
of this century an epoch of the human mind. The masterpieces of different 
sorts that his contemporaries achieved, formed, so to speak, the rays of his 
aureole. He knew how to honor suitably men of genius who cultivated 
letters, and among posterity his glory was well made by it." 

It was Madame de StaePs volume "On Germany " which 
brought to French writers an interest in their neighbors 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 281 

across the Rhine whose literature was but little known to 
them. When they had read Goethe and Schiller and had 
put them with Scott and Byron on their list of acquaintances 
they were ready to adopt Madame de StaePs name for them — 
" romantic" and to respond to Chateaubriand's invitation 
to step into the open and to pass the emotions that it aroused 
through their individuality. The literature of the eighteenth 
century, taken as a whole, had been either deadly earnest or 
foolishly frivolous. People cannot live forever at high pres- 
sure, nor do inanities relieve the strain adequately; the time 
had come when they wanted to think naturally about sub- 
jects of natural interest and to write their thoughts as natu- 
rally as they spoke them. Even in the freedom of the twen- 
tieth century there is a prejudice against calling a spade a 
spade; in the days when the " classic" influence was upper- 
most no follower of the rules prescribed for verse or diction 
would have called a dog a dog or a cock a cock. Such com- 
monplace creatures must be darkly described in elegantly 
vague language. 

The laws of meter were of the strictest. Subjects were 
chosen from antiquity and their treatment was one of im- 
personal analysis. Setting was utterly destitute of local 
color. The "unities" were binding. 

Religious feeling had been looked upon as weakness in the 
skeptical days when Reason ruled; but man is at heart reli- 
gious and the absence of religion from life and letters had 
been a suppression and not an uprooting. Now the pendulum 
swung back and man allowed himself to feel and to speak the 
old truth that lay in him. 

Chateaubriand (1768-1848), himself was not an image- 
breaker ; it was not he who threw the bomb among the form- 
alists, but he did write an infinite wealth of expression about 
scenes rich in local color which he described as his tempera- 
ment felt — and such outspokenness foreshadowed revolution. 



282 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Here is a moonlight scene from 

A NIGHT AMONG THE SAVAGES OF AMERICA 

(From "Half Hours with the Best French Authors") 

The moon was at the highest point of the heavens; here and there at 
wide, clear intervals twinkled a thousand stars. Sometimes the moon 
rested on a group of clouds which looked like the summit of high mountains 
crowned with snow: little by little these clouds grew longer and rolled out 
into transparent and waving zones of white satin, or changed into light 
flakes of froth, into innumerable wandering flocks on the blue plains of the 
firmament. Again the arch of Heaven seemed transformed into a shore 
on which one saw level rows, parallel lines such as are made by the regular 
ebb and flow of the sea; a gust of wind tore this veil again and there ap- 
peared everywhere in the sky great banks of dazzling white down, so soft 
that one could almost feel their softness and their elasticity. The scene 
on the earth was not less delightful: the silvery and velvety light of the 
moon floated silently over the top of the forest, and here and there pene- 
trated through the trees, throwing rays of light even in the deepest shadows. 
The narrow brook which flowed at my feet, burying itself from time to 
time amidst thickets of oak, willow, and sugar trees, and reappearing a 
little farther off in the glades, all sparkling with the constellations of the 
night, seemed like a ribbon of azure silk spotted with diamond stars, and 
striped with black bands. Across the river in a wide natural meadow the 
moonlight rested quietly on the pasture, where it spread out like a sheet. 
A few birch trees scattered here and there over the savannah, sometimes 
blending with the caprice of the winds into the background, seemed to be 
surrounded with pale gauze, sometimes rising from their chalky trunks 
hidden by the darkness, formed, as it were, islands of floating shadows on an 
immovable sea of light. Nearby, all was silence and stillness save for the 
falling of the leaves, the rough passing of a sudden gust, or the rare and 
broken whooping of the grey owl; while in the distance the solemn rolling 
of Niagara was heard, as it echoed in the stillness of the night from desert 
to desert, and died away in the solitary forest. 

THE FRANKS 

The whole appearance of the Roman army served but to make more 
formidable the army of the enemy by contrast with its savage simplicity. 

Clothed in the skins of bears, seals, aurochs, and wild boars the Franks 
looked from a distance like a drove of wild beasts. A short close tunic 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 283 

displayed the height of their figures and did not conceal their knees. The 
eyes of these savages looked like a stormy sea; their light-coloured hair, 
falling in front over their breasts, and dyed with a red liquid, looked like 
blood and fire. Most of them let their beards grow only above the mouth, 
in order to make their mouths look like the jaws of dogs and wolves. Some 
held in the right hand a long weapon called a framee and in their left a 
shield which they turned rapidly like a wheel; others instead of this buckler 
held a sort of javelin, called an angon, made of two bent steel prongs; but 
they all had in their belts the dreaded francisque, sl kind of two-edged axe 
whose handle is covered by hard steel, a terrible weapon which was thrown 
by the Frank as he shouted his battle cry, and which rarely failed to strike 
the mark which his intrepid eye had selected. 

These savages, according to the custom of the ancient Germans, were 
formed in a triangle, the accustomed order of battle. This formidable 
triangle where one could see only a forest oiframees, of the skins of beasts 
and of half naked bodies, rushed forward impetuously, but regularly, to 
pierce the Roman line. At the apex of the triangle were stationed braves 
who had long and bristling spears and who carried on their arms a ring of 
steel. They had sworn not to take off these marks of servitude until they 
had sacrificed a Roman. Each chief in this vast body was surrounded by 
the warriors of his family in order that he might stand firm in the shock 
of battle, and either wrest victory or die among his friends. Each tribe 
rallied under a symbol; the noblest being distinguished by bees or three 
lance heads. The old king of the Sicambres, Pharamond, led the entire 
army, and gave a part of the command to his grandson, Merovee. The 
Frankish cavalry, facing the Roman cavalry, covered two sides of their 
infantry 7 . From their casques, shaped like open jaws, waved two vulture 
wings; by their steel corslets and white bucklers, one might have taken 
them for phantoms or strange figures seen amid tempest clouds. Clodion, 
son of Pharamond, father of Merovee, shone at the head of this menacing 
cavalry. 

An example of Chateaubriand's verse is this 
FAIR YOUNG GIRL AND FLOWER 

(From Longfellow's " Poetry of Europe ") 

The bier descends, the spotless roses too, 
The father's tribute in his saddest hour; 

O earth that bore them both, thou hast thy due, — 
The fair young girl and flower. 



284 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Give them not back into a world again, 

Where mourning, grief and agony have power, — 
Where winds destroy and suns malignant reign, — 
That fair young girl and flower. 

Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, 

Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower; 
They both have perished in their morning glow, — 
The fair young girl and flower. 

But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, 

Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower; 
And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail, 
fair young girl and flower. 

Chateaubriand allowed himself a truly lyric expression of 
his own emotions, and this new liberty made especial appeal 
to the imaginations of the "temperamentals" who felt that 
their personality was lost in the cold generalizations of the 
classic forms. Chateaubriand's "Rene" was the delight of 
every would-be confessor of his own thoughts and feelings, 
the joy and the excuse of the individualistic author. 

A follower of Chateaubriand in religious and poetic spirit 
was Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869), orator, prose 
writer and poet of distinction in all forms. Like his master, 
Lamartine did nothing radical, but he persevered in the ex- 
pression of simple, human subjects in language both direct 
and beautiful, and his work was another step toward the 
upheaval begun by Alfred de Vigny (1797-1863) and 
Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) and brought to a head by 
Victor Hugo. Lamartine's most famous poem is " The Lake " 
and it shows the inter-relation between the moods of Nature 
and of Man which was a note of this period in German and 
English as well as in French literature. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 285 

ODE TO THE LAKE OF B 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Thus sailing, sailing on forevermore, 

Still borne along, to winds and waves a prey, 
Can we not, on life's sea without a shore, 
Cast anchor for a day? 

Dear lake ! one little year has scarcely flown 

And near thy waves she longed once more to see, 
Behold I sit alone upon this stone, 
Where once she sat with me. 

As now, thy restless waves were moaning through 

The creviced rocks, where they their death did meet; 
And flecks of foam from off thy billows blew 
Over my dear one's feet. 

One night we rowed in silence, — dost recall 

That night? When under all the starry sky 
Was heard alone the beat of oars that fall 
In cadenced harmony. 

When suddenly, upon the startled ear 

Accents unknown to earth melodious break; 
And with these mournful words, a voice most dear 
Charms all the listening lake: — 

"O Time, pause in thy flight! and you, propitious hours, 

Pause on your rapid ways! 
Let us enjoy the springtime of our powers, 
The fairest of all days! 

"So many wretched souls would speed your flight, 

Urge on the lingering suns, 
Take with their days the canker and the blight; 
Forget the happy ones! 

"But all in vain I try to stay its course: 

Time slips away and flies. 
I say to night, 'Pass slowly!' and the dawn 
Breaks on my startled eyes. 



286 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

"Let us love, then, and love forevermore! 

Enjoy life while we may; 
Man has no port, nor has time any shore; 
It flees, we pass away!" 

She paused: our hearts speak through our ardent eyes, 

Half-uttered phrases tremble on the air; 
And in that ecstasy our spirits rise 
Up to a world more fair. 

And now we cease to speak; in sweet eclipse 

Our senses lie, weighed down with all love's store; 
Our hearts are beating, and our clinging lips 
Murmur, " Forevermore I " 

Great Heaven! can then these moments of delight, 

When love all happiness upon us showers, 
Vanish away as swiftly in their flight 
As our unhappy hours? 

Eternity, the Darkness, and the Past, 

What have you done with all you've made your prey? 
Answer us! will you render back at last 
What you have snatched away? 

O lake, O silent rocks, O verdurous green! — 

You that time spares, or knows how to renew, — 
Keep of this night, set in this lovely scene, 
At least a memory true! 

A memory in thy storms and thy repose, 

lake! and where thy smiling waters lave 
The sunny shore, or where the dark fir grows, 
And hangs above the wave. 

In the soft breeze that sighs and then is gone, 

In thy shores' song, by thy shores echoed still; 
In the pale star whose silvery radiance shone 
Above thy wooded hill! 

That moaning winds, and reeds that clashing strike, 

And perfumes that on balmy breezes moved, 
With all we hear, we see, we breathe, alike 
May say, "They loved!" 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 287 

The poetic fire which kindled Provence in the days of the 
troubadours has never entirely died. Now and again it 
flames up in beauty. One of these revivals came to pass 
when Romanticism laid its torch of sympathy to the southern 
spirit. Of the poets of this time Frederic Mistral tells with 
simple charm the legend of 

THE SHEPHERD AND THE HERMIT 

(Translated bj' Harriet W. Preston) 

Once in the wild woods of the Luberon, 

A shepherd kept his flock. His days were long; 

But when at last the same were wellnigh spent, 

And toward the grave his iron frame was bent, 

He sought the hermit of Saint Ouqueri, 

To make his last confession piously. 

Alone, in the Vaumasco valley lost, 

His foot had never sacred threshold crost, 

Since he partook his first communion. 

Even his prayers were from his memory gone; 

But now he rose and left his cottage lowly, 

And came and bowed before the hermit holy. 

"With what sin chargest thou thyself, my brother?" 

The solitary said. Replied the other, 

The aged man, "Once, long ago, I slew 

A little bird about my flock that flew, — 

A cruel stone I flung its life to end: 

It was a wagtail, and the shepherd's friend." 

"Is this a simple soul," the hermit thought, 
"Or is it an impostor? " And he sought 
Curiously to read the old man's face 
Until, to solve the riddle, "Go," he says, 
"And hang thy shepherd's cloak yon beam upon, 
And afterward I will absolve my son." 

A single sunbeam through the chapel strayed; 
And there it was the priest the suppliant bade 
To hang his cloak! But the good soul arose, 
And drew it off with mien of all repose, 



288 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

And threw it upward. And it hung in sight 
Suspended on the slender shaft of light! 

Then fell the hermit prostrate on the floor, 
"O man of God!" he cried, and he wept sore, 
"Let but the blessed hand these tears bedew, 
Fulfil the sacred office for us two! 
No sins of thine can I absolve, 'tis clear: 
Thou art the saint, and I the sinner here!" 

One of the qualities inherent in individualism is a certain 
naive pessimism that is almost invariably found in the work 
of writers who enjoy analysis of their own emotions. It is 
naive because it usually arises from a self-deception absurd 
in a full-grown man or woman. The melancholy hero, sensi- 
tive to a suffering world and bearing up with heroic modesty 
under a realization of his own — important — insignificance, is 
a figure appealing to the noble misunderstood. In the early 
eighteen hundreds such a figure was fashionable in fact as in 
fiction; Byron was as outspoken in his griefs as Werther in 
his "Sorrows." Lamartine's love songs were sad; Alfred de 
Vigny's sky was hung with clouds beneath which life played 
its role in gloom and pain. He was conscious of being a 
genius, and a genius must move solitary among men, wrapped 
in the mystery of his awe-inspiring gift. A superb facility 
of expression joined to imaginative power of unusual scope 
makes noble reading of all de Vigny's works — and he wrote 
poems, plays, and prose fiction. Yet this is another instance 
of what has happened so often in French literature — the mar- 
ring of a piece of workmanship approaching perfection in 
style and finish by the injection of some quality whose dis- 
turbing spirit poisons the inner springs. Within his limita- 
tions, however, de Vigny is a great poet. 

The little "Song" that follows is slight but it has charm 
and delicate fancy and but a hint of sadness. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 289 

* Come on the bright sea lonely, 
O maiden fair and free, 

Come homeless and friendless and only 
With me, with me! 

My boat on the blue wave heaves: 
See! what a fairy thing, 

With its pennons, mast and keel; 

'Tig but a little shell- 
But there / am king! 

The Earth is made for the slave, 

O maiden free! 
But for man, the true and the brave, 

The boundless sea; 
Waves whisper in their flow 

A mystery 
Of a secret spell they know, 
Of Life and Love, and oh! 

Of Liberty! 

No reserves mark de Mussel's revelations. His loves were 
many, his sufferings great, and he took the public into his 
confidence so openly that everybody who had had similar 
emotions was his friend. A poem in something less than his 
accustomed vein of melancholy is 

JUANA 

(Translated by Andrew Lang) 
Again I see you, ah, my queen — 
Of all my old loves that have been, 

The first love and the tenderest; 
Do you remember or forget — 
Ah me, for I remember yet — 

How the last summer days were blest? 

Ah, lady, when we think of this, — 
The foolish hours of youth and bliss, 

How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold! 
How old we are, ere spring be green! 
You touch the limit of eighteen, 

And I am twenty winters old. 
*From"Thalatta,'? 



290 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

My rose, that mid the red roses 
Was brightest, ah, how pale she is! 

Yet keeps the beauty of her prime; 
Child, never Spanish lady's face 
Was lovely with so wild a grace; 

Remember the dead summer-time. 

Think of our loves, our feuds of old, 
And how you gave your chain of gold 

To me for a peace-offering; 
And how all night I lay awake 
To touch and kiss it for your sake, — 

To touch and kiss the lifeless thing. 

Lady, beware, for all we say, 
This Love shall live another day, 

Awakened from his deathly sleep: 
The heart that once has been your shrine 
For other loves is too divine; 

A home, my dear, too wide and deep. 

What did I say — why do I dream? 
Why should I struggle with the stream 

Whose waves return not any day? 
Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me; 
Farewell, farewell! so must it be, 

So runs, so runs, the world away. 

The season bears upon its wing 

The swallows and the songs of spring, 

And days that were, and days that flit: 
The loved lost hours are far away; 
And hope and fame are scattered spray 
For me, that gave you love a day, 

For you that not remember it. 

By contrast, de Musset's lighter mood is full of wit and 
grace, as in his comedies, and he is capable of sustained 
dramatic power, shown at its best in "Lorenzaccio," a his- 
torical play. A number of comediettas developed proverbs 
entertainingly. One of these is called 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 291 
*A DOOR MUST BE EITHER OPEN OR SHUT 

Characters — The Count — The Marquise 

Scene — Paris 

{The Marquise is seated on a sofa near the fire embroidering. Enter the Count; 
he bows.) 

Count. I don't know when I shall get over my stupidity, but my mem- 
ory is shocking. I can't possibly succeed in remembering your day; and 
whenever I want to see you, it is sure to be a Tuesday. 

Mar. Have you anything to say to me? 

Count. No; but suppose I had, I could not say it. It is only a chance 
that you are by yourself, and within the next quarter of an hour you are 
sure to have a mob of intimate friends in here. 

Mar. It is true that to-day is my day, and I don't quite know why I 
have one. Nowadays when you are at home, you are at home to all Paris. 
It is the only way to see as little as possible of one's friends, and when you 
say, " I am at home on Tuesdays," it is clearly just as if you said, " Leave 
me in peace on the other days " 

Count. That makes it all the worse for me to come to-day, since you 
allow me to see you in the week 

Mar. Make up your mind and sit down there. If you are in a good 
temper, you may talk; if not, warm yourself. But what's the matter with 
you? You seem 

Count. What? 

Mar. I would not say the word for the world. 

Count. Well, indeed, then I will admit it. Before I came in I was a 
little 



Mar. What? It is my turn now to ask. 

Count. Will you be angry if I tell you? 

Mar. There is a ball this evening, where I want to look my best, so I 
shall not lose my temper all day. 

Count. Well, I was a little bored. I don't know what's the matter with 
me: it's a fashionable affliction like your days. I don't know what to do. 
I am as stupid as a magazine article. 

Mar. I can say the same for myself. I am bored to extinction. It is 
the weather, no doubt. 

Count. The fact is, cold is abominable. 

* Abridged from translation by S. L. Gwynn. Courtesy of The Walter Scott Publish- 
ing Company. 



292 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Mar. Perhaps it is that we are growing old. I am beginning to be 
thirty, and I am losing my talent for existence. 

Count. It is a talent I never had, and what scares me is that I am pick- 
ing it up. As one ages, one turns fogey or fool, and I am desperately afraid 
of dying a wiseacre. 

Mar. Ring for them to put a log on the fire. Your idea freezes me. 
(A ring heard outside.) 

Count. It is not worth while. There is a ring at the door, and your 
procession is arriving. 

Mar. Let us see who will carry the flag; and, above all, do your best to 
stay. 

Count. No; decidedly I am off. {He rises, bows 7 and opens the door.) 
Adieu, Madame, till Thursday evening. 

Mar. Why Thursday? 

Count. Is it not your day at the opera? I will go and pay you a little 
visit. 

Mar. I don't want you; you are too cross. Besides, I am taking M. 
Camus. 

Count. M. Camus, your country neighbour? 

Mar. Yes. He sold me apples and hay with great gallantry, and I 
want to return his civility. 

Count. Now, that is just your way. The most wearisome creature! 
He should be fed on his own wares. And by the way, do you know what 
the world says? 

Mar. No. But no one is coming. Do shut that door. There's a ter- 
rible draught. 

Count. People are saying that you are thinking of marrying again, 
and that M. Camus is a millionaire, and that he comes very often to your 
house. 

Mar. Really! Is that all? 

Count. I tell it you because people are talking of it. 

Mar. Do I repeat all that the world says of you? 

Count. Of me, Madame? What do they say, if you please, that will 
not bear repeating? (sitting down again). Tell me, I implore you, Mar- 
quise. You are the person in all the world whose opinion I value most. 

Mar. One of the persons, you mean. 

Count. No, Madame, I say the person — she whose esteem, whose 
opinion 

Mar. Good heavens, you are going to turn a phrase. 

Count. Not at all. If you see nothing, evidently it is because you will 
not see. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 293 

Mar. See what? 

Count. You can't but understand 



Mar. I only understand what people tell me, and even then I am hard 
of hearing. 

Count. You laugh at everything; but, candidly, could it be possible, 
that after seeing you for a whole year, with your wit, your beauty, your 
grace 

Mar. But, good heavens! this is worse than a phrase; it is a declaration. 
Warn me at least. Is it a declaration or a New Year's compliment? 

Count. And suppose it were a declaration? 

Mar. Oh, I don't want it this morning. I told you I was going to a 
ball; I run the risk of hearing some this evening, and my health won't 
stand that sort of thing twice a day. 

Count. Truly you are discouraging, and I shall be heartily delighted 
when your turn comes to be caught. 

Mar. I shall be delighted myself. I swear to you, there are instants 
when I would give large sums to have even a little vexation. 

Count. Laugh away, laugh away; your turn will come. 

Mar. Very possibly: we are all mortal. 

Count. So you don't choose to be made love to? 

Mar. No. I am very good-natured; but as for love-making, it is quite 
too stupid. Come now, you who have common sense, tell me what does 
this mean: making love to a woman? 

Count. It means that the woman in question pleases you, and that you 
like to tell her so. 

Mar. Very well; but what about the woman? Does it please her to 
please you? For instance, you think me pretty, let us suppose, and it 
amuses you to let me know it. Is that a reason for me to love you? What 
does a man gain by these compliments? How can a man of brains take 
any pleasure in these sillinesses? It puts me into a passion when I think 
of it. 

Count. Still there is nothing to get angry about. 

Mar. On my word, there is. You must credit a woman with a very 
empty head and a great stock of stupidity to imagine that you can mix a 
charm for her out of such ingredients. Really, it seems to me that if I 
were a man, and saw a pretty woman, I should say to myself: "Flere is a 
poor creature who is sure to be stifled with compliments," and if I wanted 
to find favour, I would do her the honour to talk to her of something else 
than her unhappy face. But no, it is always " You are pretty," and then 
M You are pretty," and then "Pretty" again. Why, good heavens! we know 
it well enough! 



294 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Count. Well, Madame, you are charming, take it as you will. — There's 
another ring. Good-bye; I am off. 

Mar. Wait now; I wanted to tell you — I forget what it was. Ah! do 
you pass Frossin's by any chance in your wanderings? 

Count. It will not be by chance, Madame, if I can be of any use to you. 

Mar. Another compliment. Heavens, how you bore me! It is a ring 
I have broken. Of course I could simply send it, but I must explain to you. 
{Taking the ring of her finger.) There, do you see, it is the setting. {Bell 
heard. Count looks out of window). Do shut that door; you are freezing me. 

Count. I'm just going. But you promise to repeat what was said to you 
about me, don't you, Marquise? 

Mar. Come to the ball this evening, and we will have a talk. 

Count. Parbleu! Yes; talk in a ball-room! A nice spot for conversa- 
tion, with trombone accompaniment and a clatter of glasses of eau sucree. 
I put it to you, is that the places — -? 

Mar. Will you go or stay? I tell you again, you are giving me a cold. 
Since no one is coming, what drives you away? 

Count {shutting the door and sitting down again). The fact is, do what I 
can, I feel in such bad humour that I am really afraid of wearing out your 
patience. Decidedly, I must leave off coming to your house 

Mar. That is polite. And what has put that into your head? 

Count. I don't know, but I bore you. You told me so yourself a moment 
ago, and I am quite conscious of it. 

Mar. If I told you you were boring me this morning, that was because 
it is unusual. Seriously, you would pain me. I take great pleasure in 
seeing you 

Count. You? Not a bit. 

Mar. What a tragic tone! I forbade you to love me? 

Count. Certainly; or to speak to you of it, at least. 

Mar. Well, I give you leave. Let us hear your eloquence. 

Count. If you meant that {Bell heard). That jingle again. Good- 
bye, then, Marquise. At all events, I won't let you off so. {He opens the 
door.) 

Mar. Till this evening, is it not? But what is that noise I hear? 

Count {looking out of the window). It is a change in the weather. It is 
raining and hailing as hard as you please. 

Mar. It is frightful. Do shut the door. You can't go out in this 
weather. 

Count {shutting the door). You may safely reckon, I can tell you, that 
with this hail you won't have any one here. There is one of your days 
wasted 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 295 

Mar. Not at all, since you came. Do put down your hat. It fidgets me. 

Count. A compliment, Madame. Take care. You, who profess to 
hate them, might have yours taken for truth. 

Mar. But I tell you so, and it is quite true. You give me great pleasure 
by coming to see me. 

Count {sitting down again near the Marquise). Then let me love you. 

Mar. But I tell you also, I am quite willing. It doesn't annoy me the 
least bit in the world. 

Count. Then let me speak of it to you. It seems to me that one has 
certainly a right without offending a person one respects 

Mar. To wait till the rain is over, you mean. You came in here a 
moment ago without knowing why. If you had found three people here, 
any three, no matter who, you would be there by the corner of the fire, 
at the present moment, talking literature or railroads, after which you would 
go and dine. So it is because I was alone that you think yourself bound 
all on a sudden, yes, bound in honour to make love to me. Do you know 
what men look like under those circumstances? Like those poor hissed 
authors who have always a manuscript in their pockets, some unpublished 
and unplayable tragedy, and pull out this to batter your ears with it as 
soon as you are left alone with them for a quarter of an hour. 

Count. So you tell me that I don't displease you. I reply that I love 
you, and there is an end of it to your mind. 

Mar. You love me no more than the Grand Turk. 

Count. Oh, come now, that is too much. Listen to me for a single 
moment, and if you don't believe me sincere 

Alar. No, no, and no again! Good heavens! do you think I don't know 
what you could tell me? 

Count. You have cloyed your palate, Marquise. You are jaded 

Mar. Insults? I prefer them; they are less insipid than your sugar- 
plums. 

Count. Yes, the plain truth is you are jaded. 

Mar. You think so. Well ! not a bit of it ! 

Count. Jaded as an old Englishwoman with fourteen children. 

Mar. As the feather that dances on my hat! So you imagine that it 
is a deep science to know you all by heart. Why, there is no study needed 
to learn that lesson; simply you have to be left to yourselves. You have 
only one tune among you, as they say, so that the mere repetition of the 
same words, the mere spectacle of all these different faces which may in 
themselves be more or less passable, but at these fatal moments all assume 
the same humbly victorious expression, is enough to work our salvation 
by laughter, or at least by sheer weariness. Do you call this being jaded? 



296 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Count. Horribly so, if what you say is true; and it seems to me so far 
from natural that the doubt might be allowed. 

Mar. I begged you to put a log on the fire. 

Count (putting on the. log). You discourage a poor devil by telling him, 
" I know what you are going to tell me." But has he not the right to reply, 
" Yes, madame, you know perhaps; and I too know what men say when 
they love; but when I speak to you I forget it." 

Mar. Come, at least, this is better; you are talking capitally; it is the 
next thing to a book. 

Count. Yes, I am talking; and I am assuring you that if you are such 
as it is your pleasure to seem, I pity you most sincerely. 

Mar. Don't let me check you; make yourself at home. 

Count. There is nothing in that to wound you. If you have the right to 
attack us, may we not reasonably defend ourselves? When you compare 
us to hissed authors, what is the stone you think you are throwing? Why, 
heaven help us ! if love is a comedy 

Mar. The fire is burning badly; that log is crooked. 

Count (arranging the fire) . If love is a comedy, that world-old comedy, 
hissed or not, is still, after all is said and done, the least poor performance 
that has been invented. And I am wrong to call it old. Is that old which 
is immortal? 

Mar. Monsieur, this is poetry. 

Count. No, Madame; but these compliments, declarations, and all the 
doting nonsense are excellent old things, sometimes ridiculous, but all of 
them accompaniments to another thing which is always young. 

Mar. You are getting confused. What is it that is always old, and what 
is it that is always young? 

Count. Love. 

Mar. Monsieur, this is eloquence. 

Count. No, Madame. I mean this: That love is eternally young, and 
that the ways of expressing it are, and will remain, eternally old. The 
king never dies. Love is dead, long live Love. 

Mar. Love? 

Count. Love. And even suppose one were merely fancying 

Mar. Give me the fire-screen there. 

Count. This one? 

Mar. No; the brocaded one. Your fire is putting out my eyes now. 

Count (handing the screen to the Marquise). Even suppose it were merely 
fancy that one is in love, is not that a charming thing? 

Mar. But I tell you it is always the same thing. 

Count. And always new, as the song says. Why, what would you have 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 297 

us invent? Apparently, you must be loved in Hebrew! If you are like 
your grandmother, are you the less pretty for that? 

Mar. That's right, there is the chorus; pretty. Give me the cushion 
that is by you. 

Count {taking the cushion and holding it in his hand). No, Madame, I 
cannot say how painful to me is the sight of this fashionable indifference. 

Mar. What is that cushion doing in your hand? I asked you for it 
to put under my feet. 

Count. Well then, there it is, and there am I, too, and whether you will 
or no, I will make you a declaration, as old as the streets, and as stupid 
as a goose, for I am furious with you. 

{He puts the cushion on the ground before the Marquise, and kneels down 
on it.) 

Mar. Will you do me the favour to remove yourself from there, if you 
please? 

Count. No; you must listen to me first. 

Mar. You won't get up? 

Count. No, no, and no again, as you said a moment ago, unless you con- 
sent to hear me. 

Mar, I have the honour to wish you a good morning. {Rising.) 

Count {still on his knees). Marquise, in heaven's name, this is too cruel. 
You will madden me. You drive me to despair. 

Mar. You will recover at the Cafe de Paris. 

Count {in the same position). No, upon my honour. I speak from my 
heart. I will admit as much as you please that I came in here without any 
purpose. I only meant to pay you a passing visit; witness this door, that 
I opened three times to go. The conversation we have just had, your 
raillery, your very coldness, drew me on further perhaps than was right; 
but it is not to-day onty, it is since the first day I saw you that I have loved 
you, that I have adored you. I have dreamed 

Mar. Adieu! 

{Exit the Marquise, leaving the door open?) 

Count {left alone, remains a moment longer on his knees, then rises and says:) 
It is a positive fact that that door is icy. {He is going out and sees the Mar- 
quise.) 

Count. Ah, Marquise, you are laughing at me. 

Mar. {leaning against the half -open door). So you have found your feet. 

Count. Yes; and I am going, never to see you again. 

Mar. Come to the ball this evening. I am keeping a valse for you. 

Count. I will never, never see you again. I am in despair; I am lost. 

Mar. What is the matter with you? 



298 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Count. I am lost. I love you like a child. I swear to you, on all that is 
most sacred in the world 

Mar. Adieu! {She is going out.) 

Count. It is for me to leave, Madame. Stay, I beg of you. I feel how 
much I have to suffer 

Mar. {in a serious tone). Let us make an end now, Monsieur. So you 
want to marry me? 

Count. Why, undoubtedly! I am dying to. I never dared to tell you, 
but for this last year I have been thinking of nothing else. 

Mar. I am going to tell you two proverbs. The first is, Never play at 
cross purposes. Consequently, we will talk it over. 

Count. Then what I have dared to tell you does not displease you? 

Mar. Oh no! Here is my second proverb : A door must be either open 
or shut. Now for three-quarters of an hour here has this door, thanks to 
you, been neither one nor the other, and the room is perfectly icy. Con- 
sequence again — you are going to give me your arm to take me to dine at 
my mother's. After that you will go to Frossin's. 

Count. Frossin's, Madame? For what reason? 

Mar. My ring. 

Count. Ah, that is true! I had forgotten all about it. Well then, your 
ring, Marquise. 

Mar. Marquise you say. Well then, on my ring there happens to be 
in the setting a little Marquise's coronet, and as that may be used for a seal, 
tell me, Count, what do you think? Perhaps the strawberry leaves will 
have to be taken off. There, I am going to put on my bonnet. 

Count. You overwhelm me with joy. How am I to express ? 

Mar. But do shut that unhappy door. This room will never be fit to 
live in again. 

While de Vigny and de Musset were enthusiastically 
applying the methods of the new Romanticism their most 
powerful exponent was a young man, Victor Marie Hugo 
(1802-1885), whose first publication, a volume of poems, 
showed him to be the possessor of a singing style and of a 
rich and novel vocabulary. Born at a time when political 
disturbance had been going on so long that it was becoming 
a tradition, Hugo knew the admiration and the repulsion 
earned by Napoleon and his methods, and the excitements of 
the later disturbances which resulted in the "Revolution" 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 299 

of 1830. His naturally dramatic nature was stirred to ex- 
pression by the turmoil about him, and he saw in the political 
flux but another incentive to work for a change that would 
prove the final overthrow of classicism. His first play, 
"Cromwell," was a drama for the library rather than the 
stage. Its preface, however, threw down the gauntlet to the 
supporters of the school of Corneille, while, incidentally, it 
placed its author among the critics in whom this century is 
rich. 

Hugo's creed was a veritable charter of liberties and declar- 
ation of independence. To begin with he defied the " unities " 
of time and place, acknowledging only the necessity for unity 
of action. Local color, he declared, was a valuable enrich- 
ment that was not necessarily at war with the universality 
which the classicists claimed that it limited. The only lim- 
itations that he admitted were those imposed by nature and 
by truth, and such breadth of choice permits the drama to 
reflect everything that exists, even the grotesque. This 
liberty of subject was matched by a freedom of style that 
adopted the direct and enlarged vocabulary of the new school 
in a swinging verse that allowed many encroachments upon 
the old ideas. 

It was at the first performance of "Hernani," on the 25th 
of February, 1830, that the adherents of the Classicists and 
the Romanticists met on a field that was literally a field of 
battle. Hugo's friends gathered to force a victory. The 
trouble burst promptly when the heretical placing of a noun 
and its attendant adjective on separate lines — the end of the 
first and the beginning of the second — fell on the ears of the 
conservatives. Uproar and derision increased and blows 
were struck. Theophile Gautier, wearing a red waistcoat 
horrifying to the eyes of the decorous, led the Romanticists 
in what has been called the " Battle of Hernani." It was at 
least a drawn battle, for the performance was allowed a 



300 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

repetition, and repetition at last won approval. Following 
is an outline of this stirring drama. 

Dona Sol is betrothed to her guardian and uncle, Don Ruy Gomez, 
but loves the bandit, Hernani, a noble in disfavor at court, and is beloved 
by the King, Don Carlos. Don Carlos forces an entrance to Dona Sol's 
apartment, compels the duenna to conceal him and listens to the con- 
versation between Dona Sol and Hernani in which the girl vows that 
she will leave all that the Duke, her uncle, might give her, and will flee 
with her beloved. 

Dona Sol 
* I'll follow you. 

Hernani 

The Duke is wealthy, great 
And prosperous, without a stain upon 
His ancient name. He offers you his hand, 
And can give all things — treasures, dignities, 

And pleasure 

Dona Sol 

We'll set out to-morrow. Oh! 
Hernani, censure not th' audacity 
Of this decision. Are you angel mine 
Or demon? Only one thing do I know, 
That I'm your slave. Now, listen: wheresoe'er 
You go, I go — pause you or move I'm yours. 
Why act I thus? Ah! that I cannot tell; 
Only I want to see you evermore. 
When sound of your receding footstep dies 
I feel my heart stops beating; without you 
Myself seems absent, but when I detect 
Again the step I love, my soul comes back, 
I breathe — I live once more. 

Hernani (embracing her) 
Oh! angel mine! 

Dona Sol 

At midnight, then, to-morrow, clap your hands 
Three times beneath my window, bringing there 
Your escort. Go! I shall be strong and brave. 

Bursting from his concealment with comic expressions of discomfort, 
Don Carlos is about to fight with Hernani when they are interrupted by 

* Translation of Frederick L. Slons and Mrs. Newton Crossland. Courtesy of The 
Macmillan Company. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 301 

Don Ruy Gomez, who is by no means pleased at finding two men with 
his niece. The King, however, silences his reproaches by disclosing his 
identity and declaring that he had come to consult the old man on ques- 
tions connected with the death of the Emperor, his grandfather, of whom 
he had just heard. Dona Sol renews her promise to elope with Hernani, 
who is protected from the Duke's inquiries by Don Carlos's assertion 
that he is one of his followers; on which Hernani, left alone, comments. 

Hernani 

One of thy followers! I am, oh King! 

Well said. For night and day and step by step 

I follow thee, with eye upon thy path 

And dagger in my hand. My race in me 

Pursues thy race in thee. And now behold 

Thou art my rival! For an instant I 

'Twixt love and hate was balanced in the scale. 

Not large enough my heart for her and thee; 

In loving her oblivious I became 

Of all my hate of thee. But since 'tis thou 

That comes to will I should remember it, 

I recollect. My love it is that tilts 

Th' uncertain balance, while it falls entire 

Upon the side of hate. Thy follower! 

'Tis thou hast said it. Never courtier yet 

Of thy accursed court, or noble, fain 

To kiss thy shadow — not a seneschal 

With human heart abjured in serving thee; 

No dog within the palace, trained the King 

To follow, will thy steps more closely haunt 

And certainly than I. What they would have, 

These famed grandees, is hollow title, or 

Some toy that shines — some golden sheep to hang 

About the neck. Not such a fool am I. 

What I would have is not some favour vain, 

But 'tis thy blood, won by my conquering steel — 

Thy soul from out thy body forced — with all 

That at the bottom of thy heart was reached 

After deep delving. Go — you are in front — 

I follow thee. My watchful vengeance walks 

With me, and whispers in mine ear. Go where 

Thou wilt I'm there to listen and to spy, 

And noiselessly my step will press on thine. 

No day, should' st thou but turn thy head, oh King, 

But thou wilt find me, motionless and grave, 

At festivals; at night, should'st thou look back, 

Still wilt thou see my flaming eyes behind. 

Like the first act the second begins in comedy when the King with 
some of his gentlemen goes to the meeting-place of Hernani and Dona 



302 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Sol with the purpose of interfering with the elopement. He gives the 
signal agreed upon and Dona Sol comes forth, but she repulses him and 
Hernani rescues her, though he generously refuses to slay Don Carlos. 
Carlos requites him shabbily by setting the guards upon him. Hernani 
refuses to take Dona Sol with him to almost certain death. 

The third act shows Don Ruy Gomez and Dofia Sol an hour before 
their marriage. Hernani is introduced, disguised as a pilgrim. In a 
fury at Dona Sol's supposed desertion Hernani declares himself and 
urges some one of his hearers to take him and thereby earn the reward 
offered for his capture. Don Ruy Gomez says that he will protect him, 
his guest, even with his life. Hernani, left alone with the girl, reproaches 
her bitterly. 

Hernani looks at the nuptial jewel-case with a cold and apparently indif- 
ferent gaze; then he tosses back his head, and his eyes light up. 

Hernani 

Accept my 'gratulations ! Words tell not 
How I'm enchanted by these ornaments. 

[He approaches the casket. 
This ring is in fine taste, — the coronet 
I like, — the necklace shows surpassing skill. 
The bracelet's rare — but, oh, a hundred times 
Less so than she, who 'neath a forehead pure 
Conceals a faithless heart. [Examining the casket again. 

What for all this 
Have you now given? Of your love some share? 
But that for nothing goes! Great God! to thus 
Deceive, and still to live and have no shame! 

[Looking at the jewels. 
But after all, perchance, this pearl is false, 
And copper stands for gold, and glass and lead 
Make out sham diamonds — pretended gems! 
Are these false sapphires and false jewels all? 
If so, thy heart is like them, Duchess false, 
Thyself but only gilded. [He returns to the casket. 

Yet no, no! 
They all are real, beautiful, and good, 
He dares not cheat, who stands so near the tomb, 
Nothing is wanting. 

[He takes up one thing after another. 
Necklaces are here, 
And brilliant earrings, and the Duchess' crown 
And golden ring. Oh marvel! Many thanks 
For love so certain, faithful and profound. 
The precious box! 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 303 

Dona Sol {She goes to the casket, feels in it, and draws forth a dagger) 

You have not reached its depths. 
This is the dagger which, by kindly aid 
Of patron saint, I snatched from Charles the King 
When he made offer to me of a throne, 
Which I refused for you, who now insult me. 

Hernani {falling at her feet) 

Oh, let me on my knees arrest those tears, 
The tears that beautify thy sorrowing eyes. 
Then after thou canst freely take my life. 

Dona sol 

I pardon you, Hernani. In my heart 
There is but love for you. 

Hernani 

And she forgives — 
And loves me still ! 

Hernani still refuses to let Dona Sol share his fate, but yields at last. 

Dona Sol {throwing herself on his neck) 

You are my lion, generous and superb ! 
I love you. 

Hernani 

Ah, this love would be a good 
Supreme, if we could die of too much love! 

Dona Sol 

Thou art my lord! I love thee and belong 
To thee! 

Hernani {letting his head fall on her shoulder) 

How sweet would be a poignard stroke 
From thee! 

Dona Sol {entreatingly) 

Fear you not God will punish you 
For words like these? 

Hernani {still leaning on her shoulder) 

Well, then, let Him unite us! 

I have resisted; thou would'st have it thus. 

[While they are in each other's arms, absorbed and gazing with ecstasy 
at each other, Don Ruy Gomez enters by the door at the back of 
the stage. He sees them, and stops on the threshold as if petrified. 



304 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

As Hernani offers to yield his life to the old man in atonement for his 
breach of hospitality the King is announced. The Duke conceals Her- 
nani in a hiding-place behind a picture of himself and refuses to give up 
his guest. The King takes Dona Sol as hostage for her uncle's loyalty. 

Don Carlos and his train gone, Ruy Gomez releases Hernani. 

Don Ruy Gomez 

Come forth, young man, to slay me, else 
To be slain. 

Hernani 

To die, ah yes! Against 
My will thyself hast saved me, and my life 
Is yours. I bid you take it. 

But in peace 
I'd calmly die, if thou wouldst deign that ere 
My soul is freed, it sees once more the soul 
That shines so clearly in her eyes. To her 
I will not speak. Thou shalt be there to see, 
My father, and canst slay me afterwards. 

Don Ruy Gomez (pointing to the recess still open) 

Oh, Saints of Heaven! can this recess then be 
So deep and strong that he has nothing heard? 

Hernani 
No, I have nothing heard. 

Don Ruy Gomez 

I was compelled 
To yield up Dona Sol or thee. 

Hernani 
To whom? 

Don Ruy Gomez 
The King. 

Hernani 

Madman! He loves her. 

Don Ruy Gomez 

Loves her! He! 

Hernani 
He takes her from us! He our rival is! 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 305 

Don Ruy Gomez 

Curses be on him! Vassals! all to horse — 
To horse! Let us pursue the ravisher! 

Hernani 

Listen! The vengeance that is sure of foot 
Makes on its way less noise than this would do. 
To thee I do belong. Thou hast the right 
To slay me. Wilt thou not employ me first 
As the avenger of thy niece's wrongs? 
Let me take part in this thy vengeance due; 
Grant me this boon, and I will kiss thy feet, 
If so must be. Let us together speed 
The King to follow. I will be thine arm. 
I will avenge thee, Duke, and afterwards 
The life that's forfeit thou shalt take. 

Don Ruy Gomez 

And then, 
As now, thou'lt ready be to die? 

Hernani 
Yes, Duke. 

Don Ruy Gomez 
By what wilt thou swear this? 

Hernani 
My father's head. 

Don Ruy Gomez 
Of thine own self wilt thou remember it? 

Hernani (giving him the horn which he takes from his girdle) 

Listen ! Take you this horn, and whatsoe'er 
May happen — what the place, or what the hour — 
Whenever to thy mind it seems the time 
Has come for me to die, blow on this horn 
And take no other care; all will be done. 

Don Ruy Gomez (offering his hand) 
Your hand! [They press hands. 

(To the portraits) 
And all of you are witnesses. 



306 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

The scene of the fourth act is the interior of the vaults which enclose 
the tomb of Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle. Don Carlos has learned 
that here is to be a meeting of conspirators against him. At the same 
time the Electoral College is meeting and Carlos hopes that he will be 
chosen emperor. In a monologue Carlos declares his ambitions. 

Don Carlos {alone) 

Here Charlemagne rests! How can the sombre tomb 
Without a rifting spasm hold such dust! 
And art thou truly here, colossal power, 
Creator of the world? And canst thou now 
Crouch down from all thy majesty and might? 
Ah, 'tis a spectacle to stir the soul 
What Europe was, and what by thee 'twas made. 
Mighty construction with two men supreme 
Elected chiefs to whom born kings submit. 

Pope and Emperor, they on earth are all in all, 
A mystery supreme dwells in them both, 
And Heaven's might, which they still represent, 
Feasts them with kings and nations, holding them 
Beneath its thunder-cloud, the while they sit 
At table with the world served out for food. 



They make and all unmake. One can release, 
The other surely strike. The one is Truth, 
The other Might. Each to himself is law, 
And is, because he is. When — equals they 
The one in purple, and the other swathed 
In white like winding-sheet — when they come out 
From Sanctuary, the dazzled multitude 
Look with wild terror on these halves of God, 
The Pope and Emperor. Emperor! oh to be 
Thus great! Oh, anguish, not to be this Power 
When beats the heart with dauntless courage fill'd! 
Oh, happy he who sleeps within this tomb! 
How great, and oh! how fitted for his time! 

What destiny! And yet 'tis here he lies? 

Is all so little that we come to this! 

What then? To have been Prince and Emperor, 

And King — to have been sword, and also law; 

Giant, with Germany for pedestal — 

For title Caesar — Charlemagne for name: 

A greater to have been than Hannibal 

Or Attila — as great as was the world. 

Yet all rests here! 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 307 

Oh, Empire, power, 
What matters all to me ! I near it now 
And like it well. Some voice declares to me 
Thine — thine — it will be thine. Heavens, were it so! 
To mount at once the spiral height supreme 
And be alone — the key-stone of the arch, 
With states beneath, one o'er the other ranged, 
And kings for mats to wipe one's sandall'd feet! 



Wondrous human base 
Of nations, bearing on your shoulders broad 
The mighty pyramid that has two poles, 
The living waves that ever straining hard 
Balance and shake it as they heave and roll, 
Make all change place, and on the highest heights 
Make stagger thrones, as if they were but stools. 
So sure is this, that ceasing vain debates 
Kings look to Heaven! Kings look down below, 
Look at the people! — Restless ocean, there 
Where nothing's cast that does not shake the whole; 
The sea that rends a throne, and rocks a tomb — 
A glass in which kings rarely look but ill. 
Ah, if upon this gloomy sea they gazed 
Sometimes, what Empires in its depths they'd find! 

........... 

If I fail when there 
Feeling my feet upon the trembling world, 
Feeling alive the palpitating earth, 
Then when I have between my hands the globe 
Have I the strength alone to hold it fast, 
To be an Emperor? Oh, God, 'twas hard 
And difficult to play the kingly part. 
Certes, no man is rarer than the one 
Who can enlarge his soul to duly meet 
Great Fortune's smiles, and still increasing gifts. 
But I! Who is it that shall be my guide, 
My counsellor, and make me great? 

[Falls on his knees before the tomb, 
'Tis thou, 
Oh, Charlemagne! And since 'tis God for whom 
All obstacles dissolve, who takes us now 
And puts us face to face — from this tomb's depths 
Endow me with sublimity and strength. 
Let me be great enough to see the truth 
On every side. 



And show me certainly 
Whether to punish, or to pardon, be 
The worthier thing to do. 



308 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Is it not fact 
That in his solitary bed sometimes 
A mighty shade is wakened from his sleep, 
Aroused by noise and turbulence on earth; 
That suddenly his tomb expands itself, 
And bursts its doors — and in the night flings forth 
A flood of light? If this be true indeed, 
Say, Emperor ! what can after Charlemagne 
Another do ! Speak, though thy sovereign breath 
Should cleave this brazen door. Or rather now 
Let me thy sanctuary enter lone! 
Let me behold thy veritable face, 
And not repulse me with a freezing breath. 
Upon thy stony pillow elbows lean, 
And let us talk. 

Speak, and do not blind 
Or if thou wilt not speak, 
Let me make study in the solemn peace 
Of thee, as of a world, thy measure take, 
Oh giant, for there's nothing here below 
So great as thy poor ashes. Let them teach, 

Failing thy spirit. [He puts the key in the lock. 

Let us enter now. [He recoils. 

Oh, God, if he should really whisper me! 
If he be there and walks with noiseless tread, 
And I come back with hair in moments bleached! 

The conspirators meet and choose the assassin of Don Carlos. The 
lot falls on Hernani. Ruy Gomez offers to buy the opportunity from 
him by giving him Dona Sol and returning the horn whose blast is to 
end Hernani 's life. Still Hernani refuses. A distant cannon booms thrice, 
the signal that Carlos has been chosen emperor. He steps from the tomb, 
summons his guard, and orders the arrest of all who seem noble among 
the conspirators. Hernani claims a place among them by virtue of his 
title, for he is Juan of Aragon, Duke of Segorbe and Cardona. Touched 
to generosity the newly-made emperor gives Dona Sol to her lover. 
"Duke Juan, take your wife." 

Don Ruy Gomez frowns upon the scene, for he does not forgive Her- 
nani. Don Carlos, too, suffers, but he has consolation. He bends to- 
ward the tomb. 

Don Carlos 

Art thou content with me, oh Charlemagne! 
Have I the kingship's littleness stripped off? 
Become as Emperor another man? 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 309 

Have I my candle lighted at thy flame? 
Did I interpret right the voice that spake 
Within this tomb? Ah, I was lost — alone 
Before an Empire — a wide howling world 
That threatened and conspired! 

A score of nations, each 
Of which might serve to awe a score of kings. 
Things ripe, all pressing to be done at once. 
I cried to thee — with what shall I begin? 
And thou didst answer— Son, by clemency! 

The last act shows the wedding festivities of Hernani and Dona Sol, 
the gayety marred only by the forbidding presence of a Black Domino. 
Hernani and Dona Sol, alone, are speaking of their happiness when a 
horn sounds in the distance — the signal that claims Hernani 's life by 
virtue of his promise to Don Ruy Gomez. The old man appears in the 
guise of the Black Domino and forces the fulfilment of the oath. Dona 
Sol joins her husband in death and Don Ruy Gomez kills himself. 

Of all Hugo's dramas, some in prose and some in verse, 
" Ruy Bias " is next to " Hernani " in the public heart. Again 
the scene is laid in Spain, always vivid to Hugo from his 
childhood days spent there, and the action and characters 
are full of change and contrast. 

This great man's genius was not limited to verse, though 
he excelled in both dramatic and lyric forms. In prose fiction 
his output was gigantic. Novels of enormous length and 
rich variety, profound in inner meaning, and plutocratic in 
vocabulary, rolled from his pen with a facility born of delight. 
Of these tremendous productions it is hard to choose the 
best after "Les Miserables" ("The Wretched") which is an 
acknowledged masterpiece, though loose in construction. 
" Notre Dame de Paris," named from the ancient cathedral 
whose spirit commands the action of the story, "The Toilers 
of the Sea," dealing with the life of the Channel Islands, 
"The Man Who Laughs," the tale of a man disfigured in his 
babyhood by mountebanks and doomed to belie a breaking 
heart by a mirth-producing face, "Ninety-three," a romance 



310 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

of the Revolution — these novels, vital and unusual, illustrate 
yet another feature of the Romantic movement, the choice of 
subjects from possibilities considered anathema by the 
Classicists. 

A part of the famous account of the battle of Waterloo 
from "Les Miserables" will give an idea of the onrush of 
words which ably reflected the movement they described. 

THE CATASTROPHE 

(From " Les Miserables." Translated by Lascelles Wraxall) 

The rout in the rear of the guard was mournful; the army suddenly 
gave way on all sides simultaneously, at Hougomont, La Haye Sainte, 
Papelotte, and Plancenoit. The cry of "Treachery" was followed by 
that of "Sauve qui peut!" An army which disbands is like a thaw, — 
all gives way, cracks, floats, rolls, falls, comes into collision, and dashes 
forward. Ney borrows a horse, leaps on it, and without hat, stock, or 
sword, dashes across the Brussels road, stopping at once English and 
French. He tries to hold back the army, he recalls it, he insults it, he 
clings wildly to the rout to hold it back. The soldiers fly from him, 
shouting, "Long live Marshal Ney!" Two regiments of Durotte's move 
backward and forward in terror, and, as it were, tossed between the 
sabres of the Hussars and the musketry fire of Kempt's, Best's, and 
Peck's brigades. A rout is the highest of all confusions, for friends kill 
each other in order to escape, and squadrons and battalions dash against 
and destroy each other. Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the other, 
are carried away by the torrent. In vain does Napoleon build a wall of 
what is left of the Guard; in vain does he expend his own special squad- 
rons in a final effort. . . . Napoleon gallops along the line of fugi- 
tives, harangues, urges, threatens, and implores them; all the mouths 
that shouted "Long live the Emperor" in the morning, remained wide 
open; they hardly knew him. The Prussian cavalry, who had come up 
fresh, dash forward, cut down, kill, and exterminate. The artillery 
horses dash forward with the guns; the train soldiers unharness the horses 
from the caissons and escape on them; wagons overthrown and with their 
four wheels in the air, block up the road and supply opportunities for 
massacre. Men crush each other and trample over the dead and over the 
living. A multitude wild with terror fill the roads, the paths, the bridges, 
the plains, the hills, the valleys, and the woods, which are thronged by 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 311 

this flight of forty thousand men. Cries, desperation; knapsacks and 
muskets cast into the wheat; passages cut with the edge of the sabres; 
no comrades, no officers, no generals recognized — an indescribable terror. 
Ziethen sabreing France at his ease. The lions become kids. Such was 
this fight. 

. . . . The victory was completed by the assassination of the 
vanquished. Let us punish as we are writing history, — old Blucher dis- 
honoured himself. This ferocity set the seal on the disaster; the des- 
perate rout . . . only stopped at the frontier. Alas! and who was 
it flying in this way? The grand army. 

Did this vertigo, this terror, this overthrow of the greatest bravery 
that ever astonished history, take place without a cause? No. The 
shadow of a mighty right hand is cast over Waterloo; it is the day of 
destiny, and the force which is above man produced that day. Hence 
the terror, hence all those great souls laying down their swords. Those 
who had conquered Europe, fell crushed, having nothing more to say 
or do, and feeling a terrible presence in the shadow. Hoc erat in jatis. 
On that day, the perspective of the human race was changed, and Water- 
loo is the hinge of the 19th century. The disappearance of the great 
man was necessary for the advent of the great age, and He who cannot 
be answered undertook the task. The panic of the heroes admits of 
explanation; in the battle of Waterloo, there is more than a storm; there 
is a meteor. 

At nightfall, Bernard and Bertrand seized by the skirt of his coat, in 
a field near Genappes, a haggard, thoughtful, gloomy man, who, carried 
so far by the current of the rout, had just dismounted, passed the bridle 
over his arm, and was now, with wandering eye, returning alone to 
Waterloo. It was Napoleon, the immense somnambulist of the shattered 
dream still striving to advance. 

Hugo's connection with the politics of his time was as 
intimate as might be expected of his vivid nature, and it was 
reflected in his work. He was an early admirer, a later ac- 
cuser of Napoleon, and his Napoleonic verse makes a group 
valuable alike to the student of history and of literature. He 
was made a peer by Louis Philippe and a member of the 
National Assembly under the Republic of 1848. Identifying 
himself with the people, he was exiled after the coup d'etat 
of 1851 and spent eighteen years out of France writing poems, 



312 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

novels and political monographs. With the downfall of 
Napoleon III and the re-establishment of the Republic, Hugo 
returned to Paris in time for the siege and to be elected to 
the National Assembly of 1871. 

No relaxation appeared with Hugo's advancing age. He 
was eighty-three when he died, and his pen was busy to the 
last. 

Capable of the widest range of emotion as of expression, no 
aspiration was too great, no incident too trifling for him to 
record. His devout attitude before Nature is evident in 

OLD OCEAN 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight; 
Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright; 

Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye; 
And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, 
Seemed to question with moody, mysterious sound, 

The waves, and the pure stars on high. 
And the clear constellations, that infinite throng, 
While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song, 

Replying, bowed meekly their diamond blaze; 
And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, 
Chorused forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest, 
" Creator! we bless thee and praise!" 

A friend of Hugo and working in the same field with results 
that seem impressive except by comparison with the produc- 
tion of such an unmatched power, Alexander Dumas, the 
elder (1805-1870), wrote historical dramas which achieved 
success in their day and historical romances which are still 
read in ours. The plays have not lived because they lacked 
the inner touch that would make them universal. The novels 
continue to charm by their relation of exciting adventures met 
by their heroes with the boldness and resource which we all 
like to think we could match if put to the test. The trilogy 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 313 

of the musketeers is too well known in translation to need 
quotation here. 

That the romantic method was applicable to other forms 
than the novel and the drama was proven by the activities of 
Augustin Thierry (1795-1856), who, inspired by Chateau- 
briand, told the tales of history with the vividness usually 
devoted to fiction. 

Similiarly alive was Jules Michelet (1798-1874) to 
whom the writing of history was a process of resurrection. 
He vitalized dry bones and created from them living, pictur- 
esque figures in prose instinct with poetic suggestion. His 
"France'' is nobly drawn. 

There she is, this France, seated on the ground, like Job, among her 
friends who come to console her, interrogate her, better her condition, 
if they can, work for her safety. 

"Where are your ships, your machines? " says England. And Germany 
"Where are your systems? Have you not then, like Italy, at least 
some works of art to show?" 

Good sisters who thus come to console France allow me to reply. She 
is sick, you see; I see her with her head lowered, she does not wish to 
speak. If one wished to heap up what each nation has contributed of 
blood and gold and efforts of every sort which could be of use only to 
the world, France's pyramid would mount up to heaven. . . . And 
yours, O nations! just as you are here, ah! your heap of sacrifices would 
rise to the knees of a child. 

Don't then come to tell me: "How pale she is, this France! . . ." 
She has shed her blood for you .... "How poor she is!" She 
has given without counting for your health. . . . And having no 
longer anything, she says: "Neither gold nor silver have I, but what 
I have, I give you. . . ." Then she has given her soul and it is on 
that you live. 

"What is left her, she has given. . . ." But listen closely, Na- 
tions, know that without us you would have never learned: "The more 
one gives, the more one keeps!" Her mind can sleep within her, but 
it is always whole, always near a powerful dream. 

It has been long that I have followed France, living with her day by 
day for two thousand years, and I have acquired the faith that this 



314 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

country is one of invincible hope. It must be that God gives her more 
light than any other nation, since in full night she sees when no others 
do; in those frightful shadows which have often occurred in the middle 
ages and since, when nobody could see Heaven, France alone saw it. 

That is France. With her nothing is concluded; she is always ready 
to start afresh. 

Unaffected by the Romantic Movement, yet lifted above 
the commonplace to which the classicists had sunk, were the 
members of a group of orators, historians and critics who 
wrote and spoke with dignity of expression as well as thought. 
The mention of the names of the political and literary rivals, 
Guizot and Thiers will be enough to place these men among 
the conservatives. The quotation below, from Francois 
Pierre Guillatjme Guizot (1787-1874) compared with that 
from Michelet, will show how definite is the contrast in style 
and method. 

* In studying the state of Gaul in the fourth and fifth centuries we found 
two literatures, one sacred, the other profane. The distinction was marked 
in persons and in things; the laity and the ecclesiastics studied, meditated, 
wrote; and they studied, meditated, and wrote upon both lay and religious 
subjects. Sacred literature dominated more and more, but it was not 
alone — profane literature existed. 

From the sixth to the eighth century there is no longer any profane 
literature; sacred literature stands alone; priests only study or write; and 
they study and write, save with some rare exceptions only upon religious 
subjects. The general character of the epoch is the concentration of in- 
tellectual development in the religious sphere. The fact is evident whether 
we regard the state of the schools which still existed, or the works which 
have come down to us. 

A still more important revolution, and less perceived, is manifested: 
not only did literature become entirely religious, but, when religious, it 
ceased to be literary; there was no longer any literature, properly so called. 
In the finest times of Greece and Rome, and in Gaul up to the fall of the 
Roman empire, people studied and wrote for the mere pleasure of studying 

* From " Half Hours with the Best French Authors." 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 315 

and of knowing, in order to procure for themselves and for others intel- 
lectual enjoyment. The influence of letters over society, over real life, 
was only indirect; it was not the immediate end of the writers; in a word, 
science and literature were essentially disinterested, devoted to the re- 
search for the true and the beautiful, satisfied with finding them, with en- 
joying them, and pretending to nothing more. 

At the epoch which now occupies us it was otherwise; people no longer 
studied in order to know; they no longer wrote for the sake of writing. 
Writings and studies took a practical character and aim. Whoever aban- 
doned himself thereto aspired to immediate action upon men, to regulate 
their actions, to govern their life, to convert those who did not believe, and 
to reform those who believed and did not practise. Science and eloquence 
were means of action, of government. There is no longer a disinterested 
literature, no longer any true literature. The purely speculative character 
of philosophy, of poetry, of letters, of the arts, have vanished; it is no longer 
the beautiful that men seek; when they meet with it, it no longer serves 
merely for enjoyment; positive application, influence over men, authority, 
is now the end, the triumphs of all works of mind, of all intellectual develop- 
ment. 

It is from not having taken proper heed to this characteristic of the epoch 
upon which we are occupied that, in my opinion, a false idea has been 
formed of it. We find here scarcely any works, no literature, properly so 
called, no disinterested intellectual activity distinct from positive life. It 
has been thence concluded, and you have surely heard it said, you may 
everywhere read, that this was a time of apathy and moral sterility, — a time 
abandoned to the disorderly struggle of material forces, in which intellect 
was without development and without power. 



Adolphe Thiers (1 797-1877) shared with Guizot and 
Lamartine a reputation for successful activity in many lines. 
His journalistic work practically brought about his entrance 
into a public life which culminated in his election, in 187 1, to 
the presidency of the Third Republic, and his speeches were 
chiefly political. As a writer Thiers developed economic and 
historical themes, his "Life of Napoleon" being his strongest 
production. The following short extract not only shows 
Thiers's simplicity of expression, but gives an interesting 
account of 



316 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

THE POLICY OF NAPOLEON IN EGYPT 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Bonaparte, in order to make himself better acquainted with the manners 
of the Arabs, resolved to attend all their festivals. He was present at that 
of the Nile, which is one of the greatest in Egypt. The river is the bene- 
factor of the country. It is, in consequence, held in great veneration by the 
inhabitants, and is the object of a sort of worship. During the inundation, 
its water is introduced into Cairo by a great canal: a dike prevents it 
from entering the canal until it has attained a certain height; the dike is 
then cut, and the day fixed for this operation is a day of rejoicing. The 
height to which the river has risen is publicly proclaimed, and when there 
are hopes of a great inundation, general joy prevails, for it is an omen of 
abundance. 

It is on the 18th of August (ist of Fructidor) that this festival is held. 
Bonaparte had ordered the whole army to be under arms, and had drawn 
it up on the banks of the canal. An immense concourse of people had 
assembled, and beheld with joy the "brave men of the West" attending 
their festival. Bonaparte, at the head of his staff, accompanied the princi- 
pal authorities of the country. A sheik first proclaimed the height to which 
the Nile had risen. It was twenty-five feet, which occasioned great joy. 
Men then fell to work to cut the dike. The whole of the French artillery 
was fired at once, at the moment when the water of the river poured in. 
According to custom, a great number of boats hastened to the canal, in 
order to obtain the prize destined to that which should first enter. Bona- 
parte delivered the prize himself. A multitude of men and boys plunged 
into the waters of the Nile, from a notion that bathing in them at this 
moment is attended with beneficial effects. Women threw into them hair 
and pieces of stuff. Bonaparte then ordered the city to be illuminated, 
and the day concluded with entertainments. 



In this connection Napoleon's address to his army after 
the disaster of Aboukir is quoted here. It shows both the 
felicity of Thiers' introduction and the tact and clarity of 
the Great General's speech. Comparison of these compact 
phrases with those of the famous " Forty Centuries here look 
down upon you" will show that Napoleon himself was the 
possessor of no mean style. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 317 

NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AFTER THE DISASTER 
OF ABOUKIR 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

On the festival of the foundation of the republic, celebrated on the 1st of 
Vendemiaire, he strove to give a new stimulus to their imagination: he had 
engraven on Pompey's Pillar the names of the first forty soldiers slain 
in Egypt. They were the forty who had fallen in the attack on Alexandria. 
These forty names of men sprung from the villages of France were thus 
associated with the immortality of Pompey and Alexander. He issued this 
grand and extraordinary address to his army, in which was recorded his 
own wonderful history: — 

" Soldiers: 

" We celebrate the first day of the year VII of the republic. 

" Five years ago the independence of the French people was threatened: 
but you took Toulon; this was an omen of the destruction of your enemies. 

" A year afterwards you beat the Austrians at Dego. 

" The following year you were on the summits of the Alps. 

" Two years ago you were engaged against Mantua, and you gained the 
famous victory of St. George. 

" Last year you were at the sources of the Drave and the Isonzo, on your 
return from Germany. 

" Who would then have said that you would be to-day on the banks of 
the Nile, in the centre of the Old World? 

" From the Englishman, celebrated in the arts and commerce, to the 
hideous and ferocious Bedouin, all nations have their eyes fixed upon you. 

" Soldiers, yours is a glorious destiny, because you are worthy of what 
you have done and of the opinion that is entertained of you. You will die 
with honor, like the brave men whose names are inscribed on this pyramid, 
or you will return to your country covered with laurels and with the ad- 
miration of all nations. 

" During the five months that we have been far away from Europe, we 
have been the object of the perpetual solicitude of our countrymen. On 
this day, forty millions of citizens are celebrating the era of representative 
governments; forty millions of citizens are thinking of you. All of them are 
saying, ' To their labors, to their blood, we are indebted for the general 
peace, for repose, for the prosperity of commerce, and for the blessing of 
civil liberty.' " 

The two brothers de Maistre, Joseph (1754-1821) and 
Xavier (1763-1852) represent two quite different forms of 



318 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

literary production. Both were brilliant and witty, but 
Joseph's cleverness was exhibited in pamphlets on what 
would be called today political science, and Xavier was del- 
icate, meditative, whimsical in sketch and story. His 
"Journey around my Room" is much read in schools. 

Still another writer of those untouched by the Romantic 
Movement was Abel Villemain (1790-1870), a lecturer on 
literature at the Sorbonne. With him began one of the 
forms of that criticism of literature in which the French 
greatly delight— the exposition of the inter-relations of 
history and literature. 

In the pulpit and on the platform was a group of men so 
brilliant that it is impossible to choose among them for this 
limited chapter. Lamennais, Lacordaire, Montalembert, 
Proudhon, Cousin, are names in the foremost rank of the 
nineteenth century serious writers. Alexis de Tocqueville 
(1805-1859) has a special interest for us because of his study 
of " Democracy in America" which had no worthy successor 
until Ambassador Bryce wrote the " American Common- 
wealth." 

In verse Pierre Jean de B&ranger (1780-1857) is one of 
the best examples of the men not swept into the romantic 
rush. His political verse had cleverness rather than any 
touch of greatness. He was a man of the people, and his 
satire was highly relished by his contemporaries. "The 
King of Yvetot," written in 1813 when Napoleon was striving 
to conquer all Europe, laughed at all other monarchs for their 
easy-going qualities. The lines have been paraphrased by 
Thackeray: 

THE KING OF YVETOT 

There was a king of Yvetot, 

Of whom renown hath little said, 
Who let all thoughts of glory go, 

And dawdled half his days abed; 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 319 

And every night, as night came round, 
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned, 
Slept very sound: 

Sing, ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he: 

That's the kind of king for me. 

And every day it came to pass, 

That four lusty meals made he; 
And, step by step, upon an ass, 

Rode abroad, his realms to see; 

And wherever he did stir, 

What think you was his escort, sir? 

Why, an old cur. 

Sing, ho, ho, ho! etc. 

If e'er he went into excess, 

'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; 
But he who would his subjects bless, 

Odd's fish! — must wet his whistle first; 
And so from every cask they got, 
Our king did to himself allot, 
At least a pot. 
Sing, ho, ho! etc. 

Neither by force nor false pretence, 

He sought to make his kingdom great, , 
And made (0 princes, learn from hence) — 

"Live and let live," his rule of state. 
'Twas only when he came to die, 
That his people who stood by, 
Were known to cry. 
Sing, ho, ho! etc. 

The portrait of this best of kings 

Is extant still, upon a sign 
That on a village tavern swings, 

Famed in the country for good wine. 
The people, in their Sunday trim, 
Filling their glasses to the brim, 
Look up to him, 
Singing, ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he! 
That's the sort of king for me. 



320 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

A different expression of B&ranger's admiration is found in 

THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE 

(Translated by William Toynbee. Courtesy of The Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

His fame shall never pass away! 

Beside the cottage-hearth the hind 

No other theme shall list to find 
For many and many a distant day. 
When winter nights their gloom begin, 

And winter embers ruddy glow, 
Round some old gossip closing in, 

They'll beg a tale of long ago — 

"For all," they'll say, "he wrought us ill, 

His glorious name shall ne'er grow dim, 
The people love, yes, love him still, 

So, Grandmother, a tale of him, 
A tale of him!" 

"One day past here I saw him ride, 

A caravan of kings behind; 

The time I well can call to mind, 
I hadn't then been long a bride. 
I gazed out from the open door, 

Slowly his charger came this way; 
A little hat, I think, he wore, 

Yes, and his riding coat was grey. 
I shook all over as quite near, 

Close to this very door he drew — 

'Good-day,' he cried, ' good-day, my dear!'" — 

"What, Grandmother, he spoke to you, 
He spoke to you? " 

"The following year I chanced to be 

In Paris; every street was gay, 

He'd gone to Notre Dame to pray, 
And passed again quite close to me! 
The sun shone out in all its pride, 

With triumph every bosom swelled, 
'Ah, what a glorious scene ! ' they cried, 

'Never has France the like beheld!' 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 321 

A smile his features seemed to wear, 

As on the crowds his glance he threw, 
For he'd an heir, at last, an heir!" — 

"Ah, Grandmother, what times for you, 
What times for you!" 

"Then came for France that dreadful day 

When foes swept over all the land; 

Undaunted he alone made stand, 
As tho' to keep the world at bay! — 
One winter's night, as this might be, 

I heard a knocking at the door; 
I opened it; great heavens! 'twas he! 

A couple in his wake, no more; 
Then sinking down upon a seat, 

Ay, 'twas upon this very chair, 
He gasped 'Defeat! ah God, defeat!'"— 

"What, Grandmother, he sat down there, 
He sat down there i " 

"He called for food; I quickly brought 

The best I happened to have by; 

Then when his dripping clothes were dry, 
He seemed to doze awhile, methought; 
Seeing me weeping when he woke, 

'Courage,' he cried, 'there's still a chance; 
I go to Paris, one bold stroke, 

And Paris shall deliver France!' 
He went; the glass I'd seen him hold, 

The glass to which his lips he'd set, 
I've treasured since like gold, like gold!" — 

"How, Grandmother, you have it yet, 
You have it yet? " 



can 



'Tis there. But all, alas, was o'er; 

He, whom the Pope himself had crown'd, 

The mighty hero world-renown'd, 
Died prisoner on a far-off shore. 
For long we none believed the tale, 

They said that he would reappear, 
Across the seas again would sail, 

To fill the universe with fear! 



322 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

But when we found that he was dead, 
When all the shameful truth we knew, 

The bitter, bitter tears I shed!"— 
"Ah, Grandmother, God comfort you, 
God comfort you!" 

Like many another, whether poet or man of prose, whether 
contemporary or successor, Beranger fell a victim to the 
charms of Mary Stuart. When she left France to return to 
Scotland she wrote the quatrain which leads the verses below. 
B Granger finished the poem with incomparable charm. 

MARY STUART'S FAREWELL 

(Translated by William Toynbee. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

Farewell, farewell, thou beauteous clime, 

Scene of so many a joy. gone by! 
Land of my girlhood's golden prime, 

Farewell! to leave thee is to die! 

Homeless, in thee I found a home, 

From which I now afar must flee; 
But tho' to alien shores I roam, 

Ah, cease not to remember me! 
The billows sweep the vessel's side, 

The wind is waking o'er the main, 
Ah, why will Heaven not turn the tide, 

And give me back to thee again? 

Farewell, farewell, thou beauteous clime, 

Scene of so many a joy gone by! 
Land of my girlhood's golden prime, 

Farewell! to leave thee is to die! 

When, lily-crown'd, through all the air 

I heard thy people's plaudits ring, 
Was it because a queen stood there, 

Or Mary in her beauty's spring? 
Of what avail to vaunt the sway 

Of Caledonia's drear domain? 
Her sceptre I'd resign for aye 

To be one hour thy sovereign! 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 323 

Farewell, farewell, thou beauteous clime, 

Scene of so many a joy gone by! 
Land of my girlhood's golden prime, 

Farewell! to leave thee is to die! 

'Mid Glory's glow, and Love's delight, 

My days have passed in bliss supreme, 
But yon bleak wilderness of blight 

Will all too soon dispel the dream! 
With coming ill my heart is fraught, 

Dread phantoms round my pillow flock; 
Last night awaiting me, methought 

There loomed the scaffold and the block! 

Farewell, farewell, thou beauteous clime, 

Scene of so many a joy gone by! 
Land of my girlhood's golden prime, 

Farewell! to leave thee is to die! 

Ah, France, my France, when doom draws near, 

When woe-begirt I end my days, 
To thee who now my sobs dost hear, 

To thee I'll turn my weeping gaze! 
Slowly the shore recedes from sight, 

Out o'er the surf my bark is tost, 
And in the deepening gloom of night 

The last faint glimpse of thee is lost! 

Farewell, farewell, thou beauteous clime, 

Scene of so many a joy gone by! 
Land of my girlhood's golden prime, 

Farewell! to leave thee is to die! 

The output of the writers of this first half of the nineteenth 
century was wonderfully varied. It was as if the new liberty 
so inspired them that one form alone was not a sufficient 
outlet. Almost every great name of the day will appear in 
more than one list — among dramatists as well as poets, 
among novelists as well as dramatists. Casimir Delavigne 
(1 793-1 843) was one of these facile writers. He had a great 
vogue both as poet and dramatist. His lyric verse was, 



3 2 4 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

perhaps, over-praised, but both in tragedy and comedy he 
effected a happy combination of the classic and the romantic. 
A writer who provoked both liking and annoyance in his 
day was Gustave Nadaud (1820-1893). His songs were 
chiefly for the moment — satires on politics in large degree — 
and he would have no place here by the side of men of far 
greater importance except that he lives in one poem true to 
human nature. It is called 

CARCASSONNE 

(Translated by M. E. W. Sherwood) 

"How old I am! I'm eighty years! 
I've worked both hard and long, 
Yet patient as my life has been, 
One dearest sight I have not seen, — 
It almost seems a wrong; 
A dream I had when life was new, 
Alas, our dreams! they come not true: 
I thought to see fair Carcassonne, — 
That lovely city, Carcassonne! 

"One sees it dimly from a height 
Beyond the mountains blue, 
Fain would I walk five weary leagues, — 
I do not mind the road's fatigues, — 
Through morn and evening's dew. 
But bitter frosts would fall at night, 
And on the grapes, — that yellow blight! 
I could not go to Carcassonne, 
I never went to Carcassonne. 

"They say it is as gay all times 

As holidays at home! 

The gentles ride in gay attire, 

And in the sun each gilded spire 

Shoots up like those of Rome! 

The Bishop the procession leads, 

The generals curb their prancing steeds. 

Alas! I know not Carcassonne, — 

Alas! I saw not Carcassonne! 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 325 

"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud, 
And bids us to beware; 
He says, ' O, guard the weakest part, 
And most the traitor in the heart 
Against Ambition's snare!' 
Perhaps in autumn I can find 
Two sunny days with gentle wind, 
I then could go to Carcassonne, — 
I still could go to Carcassonne! 

"My God and Father! pardon me 

If this my wish offends ! 

One sees some hope, more high than he, 

In age, as in his infancy, 

To which his heart ascends ! 

My wife, my son, have seen Narbonne, 

My grandson went to Perpignan; 

But I have not seen Carcassonne, — 

But I have not seen Carcassonne!" 

Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, 
Half dreaming in his chair; 
I said, "My friend, come go with me 
To-morrow; then thine eyes shall see 
Those streets that seem so fair." 
That night there came for passing soul 
The church-bell's low and solemn toll, 
He never saw gay Carcassonne. 
Who has not known a Carcassonne? 

Most admired then and best known now among dramatists 
was Eugene Scribe (1791-1861) whose plays, chiefly come- 
dies, are put on today, and whose varied and ingenious plots 
have furnished material for the playwrights of all countries. 
"The Ladies' Battle" and " Adrienne Lecouvreur " are titles 
well-known to theatre-goers. 

The Romantic Movement was a reflection in letters of the 
revolutionary spirit that stirred Spain, Naples and Greece in 
the twenties and culminated in 1830 in the suffrage struggle 
in England, in the separation of the Netherlands, in the de- 



326 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

mand for more liberal constitutions in the German states, 
and in the revolt of Poland. In like manner the reaction to 
Realism in the middle of the century ran parallel to the up- 
heaval of 1848 which sought liberty in a new republic in 
France, and which made a struggle for unity in Germany and 
Italy and Austria. 

Law requires that every uninterrupted pendulum-swing in 
one direction must be matched by an equal movement in the 
other. The early enthusiasm of the Romantics was some- 
what satisfied by twenty years of expression during which 
they had worked for political as for personal liberty. Now 
the leaders were growing old and it was natural that they 
should become less imaginative and more conservative. The 
ferment of inventive power which in England was applied 
chiefly to industry, in France made its most noteworthy de- 
velopment in the discoveries of Daguerre. The nation was 
filled with interest in photography, and more or less con- 
sciously literature followed the model of exactness which it 
set. Liberty now meant the less spectacular liberty of select- 
ing material from real life and of dealing with it accurately. 

As at the beginning of the Romantic Movement there had 
been foreshadowing. Theophile Gautier (1811-1872) 
wrote both prose and verse of exquisite imaginative content 
expressed with precision and elegance. Examples of both 
forms follow. 

THE NEST OF NIGHTINGALES * 

About the chateau there was a beautiful park. 

In the park there were birds of all kinds; nightingales, blackbirds, and 
linnets; all the birds of earth had made a rendezvous of the park. 

In the spring there was such an uproar that one could not hear one's self 
talk; every leaf concealed a nest, every tree was an orchestra. All the little 
feathered musicians vied with one another in melodious contest. Some 
chirped, others cooed; some performed trills and pearly cadences, others 

* Translated by George Burnham Ives for "Theophile Gautier," in Little French 
Masterpieces Series. Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 327 

executed bravura passages and elaborate flourishes; genuine musicians 
could not have done so well. 

But in the chateau there were two fair cousins who sang better than all 
the birds in the park; Fleurette was the name of one, and Isabeau that of 
the other. Both were lovely, alluring, and in good case; and on Sundays, 
when they wore their fine clothes, if their white shoulders had not proved 
that they were real maidens, one might have taken them for angels; they 
lacked only wings. When they sang, old Sire de Maulevrier, their uncle, 
sometimes held their hands, for fear that they might take it into their heads 
to fly away. 

I leave you to imagine the gallant lance- thrusts that were exchanged at 
tournaments and carrousels in honour of Fleurette and Isabeau. Their 
reputation for beauty and talent had made the circuit of Europe, and yet 
they were none the prouder for it; they lived in retirement, seeing almost 
nobody save the little page Valentin, a pretty, fair-haired child, and Sire 
de Maulevrier, a hoary-headed old man, all tanned by the sun, and worn 
out by having borne his war-harness sixty years. 

They passed their time in tossing seeds to the little birds, in saying their 
prayers, and, above all, in studying the works of the masters and in re- 
hearsing together some motet, madrigal, villanelle, or other music of the 
sort; they also had flowers which they themselves watered and tended. 
Their life passed in these pleasant and poetical maidenly occupations; they 
remained in the chateau, far from the eyes of the world, and yet the world 
busied itself about them. Neither the nightingale nor the rose can conceal 
itself; their melody and their perfume always betray them. Now, our 
two cousins were at once nightingales and roses. 

There came dukes and princes to solicit their hands in marriage; the 
Emperor of Trebizond and the Sultan of Egypt sent ambassadors to pro- 
pose an alliance to Sire de Maulevrier; the two cousins were not weary of 
being maidens and would not listen to any mention of the subject. Per- 
haps a secret instinct had informed them that their mission here on earth 
was to remain maidens and to sing, and that they would lower themselves 
by doing anything else. 

They had come to that manor when they were very small. The window 
of their bedroom looked upon the park, and they had been lulled to sleep 
by the singing of the birds. When the}' could scarcely walk, old Blondiau, 
the old lord's minstrel, had placed their tiny hands on the ivory keys of the 
virginal; they had possessed no other toy and had learned to sing before 
they had learned to speak; they sang as others breathed; it was natural to 
them. 

This sort of education had had a peculiar influence on their characters. 



328 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Their melodious childhood had separated them from the ordinary boister- 
ous and chattering one. They had never uttered a shriek or a discordant 
wail; they wept in rhythm and wailed in tune. The musical sense, developed 
in them at the expense of the other senses, made them quite insusceptible 
to anything that was not music. They lived in melodious space, and had 
almost no perception of the real world otherwise than by musical notes. 
They understood wonderfully the rustling of the foliage, the murmur of 
streams, the striking of the clock, the sigh of the wind in the fireplace, the 
hum of the spinning-wheel, the dropping of the rain on the shivering grass, 
all varieties of harmony, without or within; but they did not feel, I am bound 
to say, great enthusiasm at the sight of a sunset, and they were as little 
capable of appreciating a painting as if their lovely blue and black eyes 
had been covered with a thick film. They had the music sickness; they 
dreamed of it, it deprived them of their appetite; they loved nothing else 
in the whole world. But, yes, they did love something else — Valentin and 
their flowers; Valentin because he resembled the roses, the roses because 
they resembled Valentin. But that love was altogether in the background. 
To be sure, Valentin was but thirteen years of age. Their greatest pleas- 
ure was to sing at their window in the evening the music which they had 
composed during the day. 

The most celebrated masters came from long distances to hear them 
and to contend with them. The visitors had no sooner listened to one 
measure than they broke their instruments and tore up their scores, con- 
fessing themselves vanquished. In very truth, the music was so pleasant 
to the ear and so melodious, that the cherubim from heaven came to the 
window with the other musicians, and learned it by heart to sing to the 
good Lord. 

One evening in May the two cousins were singing a motet for two voices; 
never was a lovelier air more beautifully composed and executed. A night- 
ingale in the park, perched upon a rose-bush, listened attentively to them. 
When they had finished, he flew to the window, and said to them, in night- 
ingale language: 

" I would like to compete in song with you." 

The two cousins replied that they would do it willingly, and that he 
might begin. 

The nightingale began. He was a master among nightingales. His 
little throat swelled, his wings fluttered, his whole body trembled ; he poured 
forth roulades, flourishes, arpeggios, and chromatic scales; he ascended 
and descended; he sang notes and trills with discouraging purity; one would 
have said that his voice, like his body, had wings. He paused, well assured 
that he had won the victory. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 329 

The two cousins performed in their turn; they surpassed themselves. 
The song of the nightingale, compared with theirs, seemed like the chirp- 
ing of a sparrow. 

The vanquished virtuoso made a last attempt; he sang a love romanza, 
then he executed a brilliant flourish, which he crowned by a shower of 
high, vibrating, and shrill notes, beyond the range of any human voice. 

The two cousins, undeterred by that wonderful performance, turned the 
leaves of their book of music, and answered the nightingale in such wise 
that Saint Cecilia, who listened in heaven, turned pale with jealousy and 
let her viol fall to earth. 

The nightingale tried again to sing, but the contest had utterly exhausted 
him; his breath failed him, his feathers drooped, his eyes closed, despite 
his efforts; he was at the point of death. 

"You sang better than I," he said to the two cousins, "and my pride, 
by making me try to surpass you, has cost me my life. I ask one favour 
at your hands; I have a nest; in that nest there are three little ones; it is 
on the third eglantine in the broad avenue beside the pond; send some one 
to fetch them to you, bring them up and teach them to sing as you do, for I 
am dying." 

Having spoken, the nightingale died. The two cousins wept bitterly 
for him, for he had sung well. They called Valentin, the fair-haired little 
page, and told him where the nest was. Valentin, who was a shrewd little 
rascal, readily found the place; he put the nest in his breast and carried 
it to the chateau without harm. Fleurette and Isabeau, leaning on the 
balcony rail, were awaiting him impatiently. Valentin soon arrived, hold- 
ing the nest in his hands. The three little ones had their heads over the 
edge, with their beaks wide open. The girls were moved to pity by the little 
orphans, and fed them each in turn. When they had grown a little they 
began their musical education, as they had promised the vanquished 
nightingale. 

It was wonderful to see how tame they became, how well they sang. 
They went fluttering about the room, and perched now upon Isabeau's 
head, now upon Fleurette's shoulder. They lighted in front of the music- 
book, and in very truth one would have said that they were able to read 
the notes, with such an intelligent air did they scan the white ones and the 
black ones. They learned all Fleurette's and Isabeau's melodies, and began 
to improvise some very pretty ones themselves. 

The two cousins lived more and more in solitude, and at night strains of 
supernal melody were heard to issue from their chamber. The nightingales, 
perfectly taught, took their parts in the concert, and they sang almost 
as well as their mistresses, who themselves had made great progress. 



330 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Their voices assumed each day extraordinary brilliancy, and vibrated 
in metallic and crystalline tones far above the register of the natural 
voice. The young women grew perceptibly thin; their lovely colouring 
faded; they became as pale as agates and almost as transparent. Sire de 
Maulevrier tried to prevent their singing, but he could not prevail upon 
them. 

As soon as they had sung a measure or two, a little red spot appeared 
upon their cheek-bones, and grew larger and larger until they had finished; 
then the spot disappeared, but a cold sweat issued from their skin, and their 
lips trembled as if they had a fever. 

But their singing was more beautiful than ever; there was in it a some- 
thing not of this world, and to one who heard those sonorous and powerful 
voices issuing from those two fragile maidens, it was not diffcult to foresee 
what would happen — that the music would shatter the instrument. 

They realised it themselves, and returned to their virginal, which they 
had abandoned for vocal music. But one night, the window was open, 
the birds were twittering in the park, the night wind sighed harmoniously; 
there was so much music in the air that they could not resist the temptation 
to sing a duet which they had composed the night before. 

It was the Swan's Song, a wondrous melody all drenched with tears, 
ascending to the most inaccessible heights of the scale, and redescending 
the ladder of notes to the lowest round; something dazzling and incredible; 
a deluge of trills, a fiery rain of chromatic flourishes, a display of musical 
fireworks impossible to describe; but meanwhile the little red spot grew 
rapidly larger and almost covered their cheeks. The three nightingales 
watched them and listened to them with painful anxiety; they flapped their 
wings, they went and came and could not remain in one place. At last the 
maidens reached the last bar of the duet; their voices assumed a sonority 
so extraordinary that it was easy to understand that they who sang were 
no longer living creatures. The nightingales had taken flight. The two 
cousins were dead; their souls had departed with the last note. The night- 
ingales had ascended straight to heaven to carry that last song to the good 
Lord, who kept them all in His Paradise, to perform the music of the two 
cousins for Him. 

Later, with these three nightingales, the good Lord made the souls of 
Palestrina, of Cimarosa, and of Gluck. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 331 

*THE CARAVAN 

The human caravan day after day 
Along the trail of unreturning years, 
Parched with the heat, and drinking sweat and tears, 

Across the world's Sahara drags its way e 

Great lions roar, and muttering storms dismay. 
Horizons flee, no spire nor tower appears, 
Nor shade, save when the vulture's shadow nears, 

Crossing the sky to seek his filthy prey. 

Still onward and still onward, till at last 
We see a place of greenness cool and blest, 
Strewn with white stones, where cypress-shade lies deep. 

Oasis-like, along Time's desert waste, 

God sets His burial-grounds, to give you rest. 
Ye way-spent travellers, lie down, and sleep. 

In the novel, Henri Beyle called Stendhal (1783-1842), 
stands as the early exponent of that sort of psychology which 
makes so large a part of the realist's battery. His novels 
were poorly constructed, but the minuteness of their analysis 
shows the care of the close observer. His study of the courage 
of women is an example. 

I remember meeting the following phrase in a history: "All the men 
were losing their heads; it is now that the women show incontestable 
superiority over them." 

Women's courage has a reserve which is lacking in that of their lover; 
they pique themselves on it with self-satisfaction, and find so much 
pleasure in being able, under the fire of danger, to dispute firmness with 
the man who often wounds them by the haughtiness of his protection 
and of his strength, that the fervor of this enjoyment raises them above 
any fear whatever which, at the moment, makes the weakness of men. 
A man, also, if he received such succor at such a moment, would show 
himself superior to everything; for the fear is never in the danger, it is 
in us. 

I am not trying to depreciate the courage of women: I have seen them 

* Translated by Curtis Hidden Page, for "Theophile Gautier," in Little French Master- 
pieces. Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 



332 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

from time to time superior to the bravest men. It is only necessary that 
they should have a man to love; that their feelings are absorbed in him, 
and the most frightful and direct personal danger becomes for them like 
a rose to be gathered in his presence. 

I have found also in women who did not love, the coolest intrepidity, 
most astonishing and most exempt from nervousness. 

It is true that I thought that they were not so brave except because 
they were ignorant of the pain of the wounds. 

As to moral courage, so superior to the other, the firmness of a woman 
who resists her love is in itself the most admirable thing that can exist 
on earth. 

All other possible marks of courage are negligible beside an exhibition 
so strongly contrary to nature and so painful. Perhaps they find strength 
in this habit of sacrifice that modesty forces them to contract. 

A master of accurate diction, another of the realist's 
strong points, is Prosper Merimee (1803-1870), public man 
and novelist, whose tales are of compact construction abound- 
ing in beautiful description. Like de Maistre's "Journey 
around my Room," M6rimee's "Colomba" is a story much 
liked in schools. The swift march of this author's style is 
well shown in an account of 

THE STORMING OF THE REDOUBT 

(From " Half Hours with the Best French Authors ") 
One of my military friends, who died of fever in Greece some years 
ago, gave me an account one day of the first affair in which he had been 
engaged. I was so struck, that I wrote it down from memory as soon 
as I had leisure. Here it is: — 

I rejoined the regiment on the evening of the fourth of September. 
I found the colonel in bivouac. He received me at first roughly enough; 
but when he had read the letter of recommendation from General B — , 
he changed his tone, and addressed some kind words to me. He pre- 
sented me to my captain, who returned at that instant from reconnoitre- 
ing. This captain whom I did not have much time to know, was a tall 
dark man, with a hard, repulsive physiognomy. He had been a common 
soldier and had gained his epaulets and his cross on the field of battle. 
His voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted strangely with his 
almost gigantic stature. They told me that this odd voice was owing to 
a ball which had pierced him through and through at the battle of Jena. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 333 

Learning that I came from the school of Fontainebleau, he made a grimace 
and said, "My lieutenant died yesterday" ... I understood that 
he meant to say "You ought to take his place and you are not capable 
of it." A sharp word came to my lips but I restrained myself. 

Directly the order to march forward had been given us, my captain 
looked at me so fixedly, that I was forced to pass my hand over my 
young moustache with as easy an air as possible. 

A rather considerable explosion carried off my shako and killed a man 
near me. 

"I congratulate you," said the captain, as I came back from picking 
up my shako; "you are quit for the day." I knew this military super- 
stition, that the axiom non bis in idem finds its application as much on a 
field of battle as in a court of justice. I put on my shako proudly. "That's 
an unceremonious way of saluting people," said I as gaily as I could. 
This bad joke, under the circumstances, seemed excellent. 

To this carnage succeeded a moment of stupor. The colonel, putting 
his hat on the end of his sword was the first to climb the breastwork, 
shouting "Vive l'Empereur! " He was followed immediately by all the 
survivors. I have hardly any further clear remembrance of what fol- 
lowed. We entered the redoubt. I do not know how. We fought hand 
to hand, in the midst of a smoke so thick that we could not see one an- 
other. I believe I struck, for my sword was all bloody. 

At last I heard the cry of victory and, the smoke clearing off, I per- 
ceived that the ground of the redoubt was quite hidden by dead bodies 
and blood. The cannon, particularly, were buried under a heap of 
corpses. About two hundred men in French uniforms were grouped 
without any order; some were loading their guns, others wiping their 
bayonets. Eleven Russian prisoners were with them. The colonel was 
lying bleeding on a broken cannon near the gorge. A few soldiers pressed 
round him: I approached. "Where is the oldest captain?" he asked a 
sergeant. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders in a very expressive 
manner. "And the oldest lieutenant?" "This gentleman who came 
yesterday," said the sergeant in a perfectly calm tone. The colonel 
smiled bitterly. "Come, sir," he said to me, "you command in chief; 
have the gorge of the redoubt fortified quickly with these wagons, for 
the enemy is in force; General C — will support you." "Colonel," I said, 
"you are badly wounded?" "Done for, my good fellow, but the re- 
doubt is taken." 



334 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Madame Dudevant who wrote under the pen name of 
George Sand (1804-1876) is a landmark both of the Ro- 
mantic and the Realistic Schools, for her style changed with 
the changing fashion. A woman of as many loves as de Mus- 
set, who was one of them, she was emotional and enthusiastic 
both in her early writing, whose basis was pure imagination, 
and in her later work which served as a vehicle to set forth 
political notions while at the same time it abounded in rich 
and vigorous description. Like Stendhal, George Sand 
builds up her points with an infinite number of details, all 
well-chosen and pertinent. Comparison with the extracts 
from Chateaubriand and St. Pierre will show the advance of 
the realistic method in the following selection. 

A MARCH COUNTRY-SIDE 

Here we are in the centre of France, in a fresh green valley, on the edge 
of the Indre, beneath a shady grove of beautiful nut trees, which looks 
out over a country-side altogether sweet to the eye and to the thought. 
This consists of narrow meadows bordered by willows, alders, ashes and 
poplars. A few scattered cottages; the Indre, a deep and silent stream, 
which unrolls like a snake asleep in the grass, and which the trees crowded 
along either bank mysteriously shroud beneath their motionless shadows; 
great cows chewing the cud with a solemn air; colts bounding around 
their mother, a miller behind his sack on a thin horse pursuing his way 
and singing in order to dissipate the dulness of the dark and stony road; 
mills ranged along the river bank with the weirs of their dams boiling 
and with their pretty rustic bridges, that you would not traverse without 
perhaps, some emotion, for they are not at all solid and commodious; an 
occasional old woman plying her distaff as she sits behind a thicket while 
her flock of geese hastily make a marauding trip into a neighboring 
meadow; there you have the sole incidents of this rustic scene. I do not 
know how to tell you wherein lies its charm, but you would surely be 
filled with it, especially if in a spring night, a little before mowing time, 
you were to wander along these paths of the meadow, where the grass 
with its thousand flowers rises to your knees, where the thicket exhales 
the perfume of hawthorn, and where the bull bellows mournfully. Dur- 
ing a night toward the end of Autumn your walk will be less agreeable 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 335 

but more romantic. You would step through moist meadows over a 
great cloth of mist as white as silver. You would have to beware of the 
ditches enlarged by the overflow of some branch of the river and hidden 
by reeds and iris. You would be given warning by the sudden cessation 
of the croaking of frogs, whose evening concert would be disturbed by 
your approach. And, if, by chance, there were to pass beside you in 
the mist a great white shadow with a rattling of chains you need not 
jump too quickly to the conclusion that it is some spectre; for it might 
well be some farmer's white mare dragging the irons with which her fore 
feet are fettered. 

More ambitious in plan than any of his contemporaries, 
even Hugo, was Honore de Balzac (1 799-1850). He de- 
termined to write a series of novels which should develop 
man's salient characteristics, the whole forming a Human 
Comedy immense in scope, valiant in execution. Balzac is 
not subtle; even his psychology is objective; he could not 
brush the dew from a flower without crushing the flower. Yet 
he is brilliantly alert, spectacularly omniscient, a realist in 
theme and romantically realistic or realistically romantic in 
treatment. His expositions of the trend and outcome of 
passions and frailties are worthy of place among the psycho- 
logical classics. His method built up a character by the re- 
lation of countless details and with no stint of words. At 
the end of the book the man or woman reached a climax of 
advance or degeneration of whose progress no step had been 
omitted, and of whose contributing causes — of inheritance or 
environment, of inner urging or outside pressure — not one 
had been passed over. No better examples of Balzac's work 
can be found than " Eugenie Grandet" and "Pere Goriot." 

Of unmixed realism as it appeared in the last half of the 
nineteenth century, there is no better exponent than Ernest 
Renan (1823-1892). Moralist, philosopher, philologist, 
historian, scientist, Renan brought a powerful mind to bear 
on a multiplicity of themes which he developed individually 
and then interwove in support of his great work on religion. 



336 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

A student of all religions he strove to extract from them the 
essence common to all. By his treatment of Christianity he 
roused great enmity, some of it justified by an occasional 
flippancy of tone and some of it understood, whether sym- 
pathized with or not, by us of later day accustomed to the 
methods and teachings of the higher criticism. 

Renan's own nature was gentle and sincere; he was not a 
vulgarian who wrote for the pleasure of shocking; he was an 
earnest supporter of freedom of belief and of the application 
of scientific laws to the facts that lie behind theology. His 
work, nevertheless, forwarded a skeptical reaction against 
the religious impulse set in motion by Chateaubraind. 

It is in Renan's literary output that we are concerned, 
however, for he stands forth as a prince of realists. The 
photographic instinct was strong in him, yet he knew how 
to subordinate the unimportant, to select the vital, and to 
develop everything with the accuracy of the scientist and 
the taste of the artist. His main work is that of the thinker 
and the scholar, but he delights also in sketches and "mem- 
ories" which are delicately executed drawings. Of his power 
of cumulative description the following extract from "The 
Life of Jesus" is an example. 

Nazareth was a little town, situated in a fold of the land wide open to 
the summit of the group of mountains which encloses on the north the 
plain of Esdrelon. The population is now from three to four thousand 
souls, and it cannot have greatly varied. In winter the cold is sharp and 
the climate healthful. Nazareth, at this epoch like all the Jewish towns, 
was a group of buildings built with no style, and must have presented 
that worn, poverty-stricken aspect that towns in Semitic countries offer. 
The houses, it seems to me, did not differ much from those cubes of stone, 
without elegance either within or without, which today cover the richest 
portions of Liban, and which, placed among vines and fig trees, are not 
without a certain charm. The environs, moreover, are delightful, and 
no place in the world was so well made for dreams of absolute happiness. 

Even today Nazareth is a delightful place to stay, the only place, 
perhaps, in Palestine where the soul feels itself somewhat relieved from 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 337 

the weight which oppresses it in the midst of this unequalled desolation. 
The population is amiable and smiling; the gardens are fresh and green. 
Antonine the Martyr at the end of the sixth century draws an enchanting 
picture of the fertility of its surroundings which he compares to Paradise. 
Some valleys on the west side plainly justify his description. The foun- 
tain, where formerly the life and gayety of the little village was concen- 
trated, is destroyed. Its cracked canals give only trouble in the water 
supply. But the beauty of the women who assemble there in the evening, 
that beauty which was already noticed in the sixth century as a gift of 
the Virgin Mary, is continued in a striking manner. It is the Syrian type 
in all its languorous grace. No doubt Mary was there nearly all her days 
and took her place, an urn upon her shoulder, in the line of her fellow 
women who remained obscure. . . . 

If ever the Christian world reaches a better notion of what constitutes 
respect for origins, and wishes to replace by authentic holy localities the 
aprocryphal shabby sanctuaries to which the piety of grosser ages was 
attached it is upon this height of Nazareth that it will build its temple. 
There, on the spot where Christianity appeared and at the centre from 
which radiated the activity of its founder should be raised the great 
church where all Christians could pray. There, also, in this land where 
sleep the carpenter Joseph and thousands of forgotten Nazarenes who 
never rose above the horizon of their valley, the philosopher would be 
in a better position than anywhere else in the world to contemplate the 
course of human affairs, console himself for the contradictions that they 
oppose to our dearest instincts, reassure himself as to the divine end which 
the world pursued through innumerable failures and in spite of universal 
self-love. 

The fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of the 
Third Republic, with the vicissitudes of Paris besieged and 
the struggle with the Prussians seem, for once, to have laid 
no serious check on literary production. Rather strangely 
the chief poets of the third quarter of the century were not 
realists but classicists. They thought enough of their own 
work to call themselves the " Parnassians," but none of 
them rose to the impassioned heights which the name would 
suggest. Indeed classicism and realism impose restrictions 
of theme which permit only the wings of a superlative genius 
to attain the heights. On the foothills of Parnassus, however, 



338 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

dwelt and sang a group of men who gave each his individual 
impress to verse which as a body they wrote with exquisite 
skill. 

Leconte de Lisle (1820-1894) led the poets who insisted 
that the lyric form did not demand the entire soul revelation 
in which the Romanticists delighted. He loved the Greek 
and followed ancient models with precision. 

PAN 

(From "Library of the World's Best Literature") 

Roistering Pan, the Arcadian shepherd's god, 

Crested like ram and like the wild goat shod, 

Makes soft complaint upon his oaten horn. 

When hill and valley turn to gold with morn, 

He wanders joying with the dancing band 

Of nymphs across the moss and flowering land. 

The lynx-skin clothes his back; his brows are crowned 

With hyacinth and crocus interwound, 

And with his glee the echoes long rejoice. 

The barefoot nymphs assemble at the voice, 

And lightly by the crystal fountain's side, 

Surrounding Pan in rhythmic circles glide. 

In vine-bound grottoes, in remote retreats, 

At noon the god sleeps out the parching heats 

Beside some hidden brook, below the domes 

Of swaying oaks, where sunlight never comes. 

But when the night, with starry girdle bound, 

Wafts her long veils across the blue profound, 

Pan, passion-flushed, tracks through the shadowy glade 

In swift pursuit the nimble-footed maid; 

Clasps her in flight, and with exulting cries 

Through the white moonlight carries off his prize. 

A poet whose popularity has undergone many shifts is 
Sully-Prudhomme (1839-1907) whose work shows a happy 
commingling of grave and fanciful, with frequent passages 
of sober beauty, usually teaching a lesson, as does 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 339 

THE SHADOW 

(Translated by Arthur O'Shaughnessy) 

We walk: our shadow follows in the rear, 
Mimics our motions, treads where'er we tread, 
Looks without seeing, listens without an ear, 
Crawls while we walk with proud uplifted head. 

Like to his shadow, man himself down here, 

A little living darkness, a frail shred 

Of form, sees, speaks, but with no knowledge clear, 

Saying to Fate, u By thee my feet are led." 

Man shows but a lower angel who, 
Fallen from high is but a shadow too; 
So man himself an image is of God. 

And, may be, in some place by us untrod, 
Near deepest depths of nothingness or ill, 
Some wraith of human wraiths grows darker still. 

Smitten with the old-time beauties and framing them in 
language rich in imagination is Theodore de Banville's 

BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST 

(Paraphrased by Andrew Lang) 

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, 

Beneath the shade of thorn and holly- tree; 

The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, 

And wolves still dread Diana roaming free 

In secret woodland with her company. 

Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite 

When now the worlds are bathed in silver light, 

And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey, 

Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, 

And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. 

With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold, 
The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee; 
Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold 
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, 
The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy; 



340 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, 
The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, 
With one long sigh for summers pass'd away; 
The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright, 
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. 

She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold 

She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee 

Mixed with the music of the hunting rolPd, 

But her delight is all in archery, 

And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she 

More than her hounds that follow on the flight; 

The Goddess draws a golden bow of might 

And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay. 

She tosses loose her locks upon the night, 

And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. 

ENVOY 

Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, 

The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight: 

Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray 

There is a mystic home of our delight, 

And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. 

Catulle Mendes (1841-1909) is another name belonging 
to this classicist group which found its point of contact with 
the realistic poets in the exactness and detail to which each 
gave allegiance. 

The realistic writers and even more, the naturalistic, who 
are realists plus, act on the belief that any theme is worthy of 
literary treatment, actuality providing the halo usually 
supplied by the imagination. The result is that both the 
prose and the verse of the last half of the last century de- 
veloped in fiction, in drama and in poetry a mass of produc- 
tion often of such extraordinary merit in psychological anal- 
ysis, in descriptive power, and in technical workmanship that 
it cannot be denied a place in real literature, yet is grudg- 
ingly admitted because of a serious inherent fault. Literature 
truly worthy of the name is something more than an ex- 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 341 

hibition of craftsmanship, however accurate or brilliant. If 
it fails to create and support a healthy mental attitude toward 
life, if it fails to stir the spiritual impulses, in just such degree 
it fails in fulfilling its noblest mission. It must be granted 
that much of the French literature of this period achieves 
this failure. The admission is made with regret, for the frame 
is too perfectly made to be contrasted with an unworthy pic- 
ture, the setting too exquisitely elaborate to be wasted on a 
sham jewel. 

The punishment for this mistake is the natural outcome 
of the fault. Frenchmen wonder, for instance, why English 
and Americans think them a nation of loose domestic ideas 
when they themselves know that their home life is as devoted 
and affectionate as that of any other people. They have only 
to look at their novels and plays for the last fifty years to 
find the answer to their questioning. 

The French temperament is journalistic. It sees in vivid 
flashes, it enjoys the disclosures caught thus melodramatic- 
ally, and it " plays them up." That the Frenchman has wit 
where the Englishman and the American have humor is a 
further explanation of the difference in taste which permits 
the former to delight in the fine malice of a clever play whose 
suggestiveness must be expunged entirely when it is adapted 
for the trans-Channel and trans-Atlantic stage. 

A just example of the qualities which make the grace and 
the disgrace of the French writers of this school is the 
" Madame Bovary " of Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880). This 
novel probably comes as close to perfection of form as any 
work of fiction ever written in any language. It is praised 
for its closeness of construction and the verbal precision 
which results from constant re- writing; for its acute psycho- 
logical analysis w T hich develops all the comedy or pathos 
latent in every character, and for the universality of its 
" types" which makes it a book that lives. Such honor is 



342 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTETS 

accorded it by critics of all nations; — but to the Anglo-Saxon 
its choice of situation and incident is so abhorrent that the 
brilliancy of its art is cast into shadow by the murk of its 
spirit. " Art for Art's sake" is a cry not confined to any one 
time or country; at the moment it is heard very little in 
England and America and France herself seems to be coming 
to a realization that a beautiful soul enhances the beauty of 
a fair body. 

No translation can do justice to Flaubert's exquisite dic- 
tion; the following paragraph describing Rouen, will, how- 
ever, give an idea of the happy figures which enrich his care- 
fully chosen details. 

At a single glance the town appeared. Sloping like an amphitheatre 
and drowned in mist, it was enlarged confusedly beyond the bridges. 
Farther on the open country rose again monotonously till it touched in 
the distance the uncertain edge of the pale sky. Seen thus from a height, 
the entire countryside had a motionless air like a picture; the boats at 
anchor were heaped together at a bend; the river curved into a bow at the 
foot of the green hills, and the islands, oblong in shape, seemed like huge 
black fish motionless on the water. Factory chimneys belched forth great 
dark plumes feathering toward the end. The roaring of the foundries mingled 
with the clear chimes of the churches, which rose through the fog. The 
trees of the boulevards made violet copses of leafless brushwood among 
the houses, and the eaves, glistening with rain, dappled the roofs here and 
there. Sometimes a gust of wind drove the clouds towards the Saint 
Catherine side, like aerial surges breaking in silence against a cliff. 

Even this brief extract gives a hint of Flaubert's imagina- 
tive power sufficient to prevent any surprise at the knowledge 
that he did romantic work of great ability. It is as a realist, 
however, that he is famous. 

Of the literary forms developed almost to exhaustion in 
the France of the nineteenth century the novel, the short- 
story and literary criticism are outstanding. Contemporaries 
and successors of Flaubert followed his methods and enlarged 
them. Emile Zola (1840-1902) for instance, massed natural- 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 343 

istic detail around themes frequently disgusting. His novels 
have robust problems and he preaches his sermons with a 
fearlessness that lays on color with a trowel and does not 
hesitate for even the fraction of a second at the nomenclature 
of a spade. Anyone who attempts a volume must expect a 
treatment coarse as well as powerful, but the author's pur- 
pose is always sane and honest. "Lourdes," "Paris," 
"Le Debacle" ("The Overthrow") all leave an impression 
of inexhaustible strength. 

While separate volumes like "The Dream," and individual 
characters in other novels, show Zola's ability to appreciate 
the beautiful and the delicate, his strength both as teacher 
and author lies in his merciless exposure of the degradation 
of society. Social and political corruption had brought about 
the state of affairs which resulted in the Franco-Prussian 
War, in the overthrow of the Second Empire and in the 
horrible internal dissension of the Commune. Zola felt that 
regeneration would be more rapid if the causes of degenera- 
tion were understood. His method was to write the history 
of different members of a supposititious family, the Rougon- 
Macquart. Each novel of this series is a unit; all together 
they make a terrific arraignment of the evils of French 
society in the early seventies. 

At the time of the Dreyfus case Zola defended the accused 
officer with a vigor which finally broke down his health and 
at last caused his death. 

The de Goncourt brothers, Edmond (18 2 2-1896) and 
Jules (1830-1870) worked in collaboration, and succeeded in 
becoming popular either because or in spite of a style original 
but so eccentric and involved, so burdened with revived and 
manufactured words and phrases, so combined of Ram- 
bouillet "preciosity" with Browning obscurity as to be almost 
unintelligible to a foreigner. "Germinie Lacerteux" is their 
best work. 



344 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Edmond About (1828-1885) is known in our own country 
by his imaginative tales, "The Notary's Nose" and "The 
Man with the Broken Ear" which have long been read in 
English translation. The same is true of Saintine and his 
"Picciola," the story of a prisoner's flower, of the "Romance 
of a Poor Young Man" of Octave Feuillet, whose simplicity 
and sincerity make him popular in schools, together with 
Emile Souvestre and his "Attic Philosopher," with the col- 
laborators, Erckmann and Chatrian, and their historical 
tales of which "Madame Therese" is an example, with 
Andre Theuriet and his rustic stories, and with the joyously 
imaginative travels, "To the Center of the Earth," "To the 
Moon," "Around the World in Eighty Days," of Jules 
Verne. Needless to say, these books are free from the vul- 
garities of "naturalism" and are realistic only in so far as they 
strive to give an impression of actuality to imaginative themes. 

A few sensational writers have compassed fame of a certain 
quality. They are Paul de Kock, Hector Malot, Georges 
Ohnet, whose "Forge Master" has been dramatized and 
played in this country, and Eugene Sue, whose "Wandering 
Jew" and "Mysteries of Paris" are well known. 

A realist with naturalistic tendencies, but left until now 
because of his work in the field of the short-story as well as 
of the novel is Guy de Maupassant (i 850-1 893). His novel, 
"A Life" is a pathetic horror whose good intention or worthy 
purpose it is hard to discover. Many of de Maupassant's 
short-stories are brutal, but others are pitiful, others tender, 
and all show a penetrating psychology and a masterly work- 
manship which has made them models for the short-story 
writers of other countries. 

Like de Maupassant, Alphonse Daudet (1840-1897) 
worked in more than one form. His novels are varied; "The 
Little Fellow" tells the pathetic tale of his own childhood; 
the "Tartarin" stories record the burlesque adventures of a 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 345 

south-of -France boaster; "Sapho" is a naturalistic warning 
to young men; and other books, equally liked, are psycho- 
logical studies of different social classes. In his shorter work 
Daudet shows a delicacy and restraint that put him in the 
class of the more purely psychological fiction writers of the 
end of the century, and he disputes short-story honors with 
de Maupassant. 

The following story gives a touching insight into the grief 
of the Alsatians when Alsace was taken over by Germany 
after the Franco-Prussian War. 

*THE LAST CLASS 

I was very late for school that morning, and I was terribly afraid of be- 
ing scolded, especially as Monsieur Harnel had told us that he should ex- 
amine us on participles, and I did not know the first thing about them. 
For a moment I thought of staying away from school and wandering about 
the fields. It was such a warm, lovely day. I could hear the blackbirds 
whistling on the edge of the wood, and in the Rippert field, behind the saw- 
mill, the Prussians going through their drill. All that was much more 
tempting to me than the rules concerning participles; but I had the strength 
to resist, and I ran as fast as I could to school. 

As I passed the mayor's office, I saw that there were people gathered 
about the little board on which notices were posted. For two years all 
our bad news had come from that board — battles lost, conscriptions, orders 
from headquarters; and I thought without stopping: 

" What can it be now?" 

Then, as I ran across the square, Wachter the blacksmith, who stood 
there with his apprentice, reading the placard, called out to me: 

"Don't hurry so, my boy; you'll get to your school soon enough! " 

I thought he was making fun of me, and I ran into Monsieur HamePs 
little yard all out of breath. 

Usually, at the beginning of school, there was a great uproar which could 
be heard in the street, desks opening and closing, lessons repeated aloud 
in unison, with our ears stuffed in order to learn quicker, and the teacher's 
stout ruler beating on the desk: 

" A little more quiet! " 

I counted on all this noise to reach my bench unnoticed; but as it hap- 

• Translated by George Burnham Ives for "Alphonse Daudet" in Little French 
Masterpieces Series. Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 



346 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

pened, that day everything was quiet, like a Sunday morning. Through 
the open window I saw my comrades already in their places, and Monsieur 
Hamel walking back and forth with the terrible iron ruler under his arm. 
I had to open the door and enter, in the midst of that perfect silence. You 
can imagine whether I blushed and whether I was afraid! 

But no! Monsieur Hamel looked at me with no sign of anger and said 
very gently: 

" Go at once to your seat, my little Frantz; we were going to begin with- 
out you." 

I stepped over the bench and sat down at once at my desk. Not until 
then, when I had partly recovered from my fright, did I notice that our 
teacher had on his handsome blue coat, his plaited ruff, and the black 
silk embroidered breeches, which he wore only on days of inspection or of 
distribution of prizes. Moreover, there was something extraordinary, 
something solemn about the whole class. But what surprised me most was 
to see at the back of the room, on the benches which were usually empty, 
some people from the village sitting, as silent as we were: old Hauser with 
his three-cornered hat, the ex-mayor, the ex-postman, and others besides. 
They all seemed depressed; and Hauser had brought an old spelling-book 
with gnawed edges, which he held wide-open on his knee, with his great 
spectacles askew. 

While I was wondering at all this, Monsieur Hamel had mounted his 
platform, and in the same gentle and serious voice with which he had wel- 
comed me, he said to us: 

"My children, this is the last time that I shall teach you. Orders have 
come from Berlin to teach nothing but German in the schools of Alsace 
and Lorraine. The new teacher arrives to-morrow. This is the last class 
in French, so I beg you to be very attentive." 

Those few words overwhelmed me. Ah! the villains! that was what they 
had posted at the mayor's office. 

My last class in French! 

And I barely knew how to write! So I should never learn! I must 
stop short where I was! How angry I was with myself because of the 
time I had wasted, the lessons I had missed, running about after nests, 
or sliding on the Saar ! My books, which only a moment before I thought 
so tiresome, so heavy to carry — my grammar, my sacred history — seemed 
to me now like old friends, from whom I should be terribly grieved to 
part. And it was the same about Monsieur Hamel. The thought that 
he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget 
the punishments, the blows with the ruler. 

Poor man! It was in honour of that last lesson that he had put on 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 347 

his fine Sunday clothes; and I understood now why those old fellows 
from the village were sitting at the end of the room. It seemed to mean 
that they regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also 
a way of thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful service, 
and of paying their respects to the fatherland which was vanishing. 

I was at that point in my reflections, when I heard my name called. 
It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to 
say from beginning to end that famous rule about participles, in a loud, 
distinct voice, without a slip! But I got mixed up at the first words, 
and I stood there swaying against my bench, with a full heart, afraid 
to raise my head. I heard Monsieur Hamel speaking to me: 

"I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough; 
that is the way it goes; every day we say to ourselves: ' Pshaw! I have 
time enough. I will learn to-morrow.' And then you see what happens. 
Ah! it has been the great misfortune of our Alsace always to postpone 
its lessons until to-morrow. Now those people are entitled to say to us : 
'What! you claim to be French, and you can neither speak nor write 
your language!' In all this, my poor Frantz, you are not the guiltiest 
one. We all have our fair share of reproaches to address to ourselves. 

"Your parents have not been careful enough to see that you were 
educated. They preferred to send you to work in the fields or in the 
factories, in order to have a few more sous. And have I nothing to re- 
proach myself for? Have I not often made you water my garden instead 
of studying? And when I wanted to go fishing for trout, have I ever 
hesitated to dismiss you? " 

Then, passing from one thing to another, Monsieur Hamel began to 
talk to us about the French language, saying that it was the most beauti- 
ful language in the world, the most clear, the most substantial; that we 
must always retain it among ourselves, and never forget it, because 
when a people falls into servitude, "so long as it clings to its language, 
it is as if it held the key to its prison." * Then he took the grammar and 
read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how readily I understood. Every- 
thing that he said seemed so easy to me, so easy. I believed, too, that I 
had never listened so closely, and that he, for his part, had never been so 
patient with his explanations. One would have said that, before going 
away, the poor man desired to give us all his knowledge, to force it all 
into our heads at a single blow. 

When the lesson was at an end, we passed to writing. For that day 
Monsieur Hamel had prepared some entirely new examples, on which 
was written in a fine, round hand: "France, Alsace, France, Alsace. " 
* "S'il tient sa langue, il tient la cle qui de ses chames le delivre." — Mistral. 



348 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

They were like little flags, waving all about the class, hanging from the 
rods of our desks. You should have seen how hard we all worked and 
how silent it was ! Nothing could be heard save the grinding of the pens 
over the paper. At one time some cockchafers flew in; but no one paid any 
attention to them, not even the little fellows, who were struggling with 
their straight lines, with a will and conscientious application, as if even 
the lines were French. On the roof of the schoolhouse, pigeons cooed 
in low tones, and I said to myself as I listened to them: 

"I wonder if they are going to compel them to sing in German too!" 

From time to time, when I raised my eyes from my paper, I saw Mon- 
sieur Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and staring at the objects 
about him as if he wished to carry away in his glance the whole of his 
little schoolhouse. Think of it! For forty years he had been there in 
the same place, with his yard in front of him and his class just as it was! 
But the benches and desks were polished and rubbed by use; the walnuts 
in the yard had grown, and the hop-vine which he himself had planted 
now festooned the windows even to the roof. What a heart-rending 
thing it must have been for that poor man to leave all those things, and 
to hear his sister walking back and forth in the room overhead, packing 
their trunks! For they were to go away the next day — to leave the 
province forever. 

However, he had the courage to keep the class to the end. After the 
writing, we had the lesson in history; then the little ones sang all together 
the ba, be, bi, bo, bu. Yonder, at the back of the room, old Hauser had 
put on his spectacles, and, holding his spelling-book in both hands, he 
spelled out the letters with them. I could see that he too was applying 
himself. His voice shook with emotion, and it was so funny to hear 
him, that we all longed to laugh and to cry. Ah! I shall remember that 
last class. 

Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, then the Angelus rang. At 
the same moment, the bugles of the Prussians returning from drill blared 
under our windows. Monsieur Hamel rose, pale as death, from his chair. 
Never had he seemed to me so tall. 

"My friends," he said, "my friends, I — I " 

But something suffocated him. He could not finish the sentence. 

Thereupon he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, 
bearing on with all his might, he wrote in the largest letters he could: 

"Vive la France!" 

Then he stood there, with his head resting against the wall, arid with- 
out speaking, he motioned to us with his hand: 

"That is all; go." 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 349 

Leaving fiction for the moment other forms of expression 
must be noticed. 

Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve (1804-1869) applied 
to criticism the realistic method of elaboration of detail. He 
was not content with commenting upon a writer's work apart 
from the writer; he insisted on knowing the man's ancestry 
and environment and the circumstances of his life which 
influenced his production. His work is vital, and has an 
interest born of intimacy as will be seen by the following 
abridgement of his essay on 

MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERY 

(Translated by Elizabeth Lee. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

I am not going to attempt a rehabilitation, but it is well to have ac- 
curate notions of certain names that often recur. Mdlle. de Scudery's 
books are no longer read, but they are still talked of; she serves to desig- 
nate a literary style, a fashion of genius in a celebrated age; she is a medal 
which almost ended by passing into circulation and becoming current coin. 
What is its value, and what right does it possess to the title? Let us do 
with Mdlle. de Scudery what she herself liked so much to do, let us examine, 
distinguish, and analyse. 

That lady of extraordinary merit, as she was called, was born at Havre 
in 1607, under Henri IV.; she did not die until 1701, at the age of ninety- 
four, towards the end of the reign, as she liked to say, of Louis quatorzieme. 
Her father was from Provence; he had been transplanted to Normandy, 
and had married there, but he transmitted something of the southern 
temperament to his children. His son, George de Scudery, was celebrated 
for his heroical verses, his boastings and rodomontades, in which he had 
the misfortune one day to encounter and offend Corneille, and posterity 
never pardoned him. Mdlle. Madeleine de Scudery's talent was quite 
different from that of her brother; Normandy, if I may say so, was more 
conspicuous in her: she reasons, argues, pleads, as regards intelligence, 
like an able attorney and pettifogger. However, it would appear that she 
too had her fair share of the family vanity: she always said: " Since the ruin 
of our house." " You would think she was speaking of the fall of the 
Grecian Empire," observed the arch Tallemant des Reaux. The boast 
of the Scuderys was, in fact, that they were descended from a noble, ancient, 
and very warlike house, originally from the kingdom of Naples, and estab- 



3 SO THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

lished for centuries in Provence. Whilst transforming persons of her ac- 
quaintance into heroes and princes in her romances, Mdlle. de Scudery 
did not consider she was going out of her own house. Having lost her 
parents while young, Mdlle. de Scudery had been brought up in the country 
by an uncle, a learned man and a gentleman, who took great pains with her 
education, much more than was usual at that period with young girls. 
Writing, orthography, dancing, drawing, needlework, she learned every- 
thing, Conrart tells us, and what was not taught to her she discovered for 
herself. " As she possessed at that time an extraordinary imagination, an 
excellent memory, an exquisite judgment, a lively disposition, and was 
naturally inclined to inform herself concerning all she saw, the curious 
things, and everything that she heard praised, she taught herself things 
connected with agriculture, gardening, the household, the country, the 
kitchen; the cause and effects of disease, the composition of an infinitude 
of remedies, perfumes, scented waters, distillations, useful or agreeable, 
for necessity or pleasure. She wanted to learn to play on the lute, and took 
a few lessons with some success." But the lute needed too much time, and, 
without giving it up, she preferred to apply herself more particularly to 
occupations of the mind. She learned Italian and Spanish perfectly, and 
her chief delight was in reading, and in select conversation, which she was 
able to obtain among her neighbours. The picture that Conrart gives us 
of Mdlle. de Scudery 's early education reminds us of Madame de Genlis's 
early education in Burgundy, and I will say from the first that in studying 
her as closely as I have just done, Mdlle. de Scudery seems to me to have 
much of Madame de Genlis, but with virtue to boot. To learn everything, 
to know everything, from the properties of simples and the making of pre- 
serves to the anatomy of the human heart, to be early a marvel and a 
prodigy, to derive from everything that took place in society material for 
romance, portraiture, moral dissertation, compliment, and moral lesson? 
to unite a store of pedantry to an extreme delicacy of observation, and a 
perfect knowledge of the world, are characteristics common to both. It is 
not, however, less essential to note the differences. Mdlle. de Scudery, 
" who was very nice-looking," and of a somewhat grand air, had no beauty. 
Tallemant tells us, " She is a tall woman, thin and dark, with a very long 
face." She was endowed with moral qualities that have never been denied. 
Respect and esteem were, for her, never separated from the idea of fame and 
glory. In a word, she was a Genlis of the time of Louis XIII. , full of strength 
and virtue, who remained a virgin and a spinster till the age of ninety- 
four. The relations of unlikeness and likeness will, without our dwelling 
on them, reveal themselves as we proceed. 
And, further, we must hear her speak of herself, whenever, under a thin 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 351 

disguise, she does so. In most of her dialogues, when making her characters 
converse, she finds a way, at every pretty speech she puts into their mouths, 
to make the one who replies say : ' ' All that you say is well said. . . . All 
that is wonderfully to the point." Or according to a phrase she delights 
in: "That is very clearly expressed." The indirect compliment she ad- 
dresses to herself continually recurs, and she is inexhaustible in methods 
of approving herself. She has partly described herself in the character of 
Sapho in the tenth volume of the Grand Cyrus, and the name of Sapho 
stuck to her. Those who had read the Grand Cyrus never called 
Mdlle. de Scudery otherwise than " the admirable Sapho." . . . 

One of Mdlle. de Scudery's pretensions was to know thoroughly, and to 
describe very well, the most secret impulses of love, although she had 
scarcely felt them, except by reflection: in fact, she often succeeded in all 
that was delicacy and refinement, in all that was not the passion itself. 
" You explain that so admirably," might be said to her with a character 
in her dialogues, "that if you had done nothing all your life but be in love 
you could not speak of it better." "HI have not been myself in love," 
she would reply, with her most charming smile, " I have lady friends who 
have been in love for me, and they have taught me to speak of it." That 
is wit indeed, and of that Mdlle. de Scudery had plenty. 

In the portrait of Sapho, which is, in so great part, her own, she 
strongly insists that Sapho does not only thoroughly know what has to 
do with love, but she is also equally well acquainted with all that belongs 
to generosity; and this wonder of science and nature is, according to her, 
further crowned with modesty. . . . 

Mdlle. de Scudery, in fact, did not delay to bring herself into notice. 
She did not remain long in the country. Having lost her uncle, she hesi- 
tated between Rouen and Paris; but her brother, who at that time was held 
in some estimation among dramatic authors, and whose pieces were suc- 
cessful at the Hotel de Bourgogne, decided her to come and establish her- 
self in the capital. She appeared there directly with success, was welcomed 
and praised in the best society, and began to write romances, without, 
however, putting her name, but concealing herself under that of her il- 
lustrious brother. 

Mdlle. de Scudery's real epoch is at that period, at the time of the Re- 
gency, in the happy days of Anne of Austria, before and after the Fronde, 
and her reputation lasted without any check until Boileau, true kill-joy 
as he was, made an attack on it. " That Despreaux," said Legrais, " knows 
nothing but how to talk about himself and criticise others. Why speak 
ill of Mdlle. de Scudery as he has done? " 

In order to understand rightly Mdlle. de Scudery's success and the di- 



352 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

rection her talent took, the aristocratic society of Paris as it was before 
the rule of Louis XIV. must be described. For some years a taste for in- 
telligence and literary genius had prevailed, a taste which contained more 
zeal and emulation than discernment and enlightenment. D'Urfe's ro- 
mance, Balzac's letters, the great success of the dramas of Corneille and of 
the other fashionable authors, Richelieu's slightly pedantic but real and 
efficacious protection, the foundation of the French Academy, had all 
contributed to awaken a great curiosity, especially among women, who felt 
that the moment for them to put society on their level was come. They 
were freed from antiquity and the classical languages; they wished to know 
their native language, and applied to professional grammarians. Men of 
the world acted as intermediaries between learned men properly so called 
and the drawing-rooms in which they desired, while instructing, to gain 
favour. But a vast want of experience was mingled with the first attempts 
at a serious and polished society. To render Mdlle. de Scudery all the 
justice due to her, and to assign her her true title, she ought to be regarded 
as one of the instructresses of society at that period of formation and transi- 
tion. That was her role and, in great part, her aim. 

Tallemant tells us that in conversation she had a tone of master and 
preacher which was by no means agreeable. The tone was not apparent 
in her romances, coming as it did from the mouths of her characters, 
and a certain amount of study is necessary now to discover its didactic 
basis. Of true imagination and invention Mdlle. de Scudery had none. 
When she wished to construct and invent fictions, she took the plots 
most in vogue at the moment; she procured her materials from the fash- 
ionable shop and dressing-room; she imitated the process of d'Urfe in 
Astree. In so doing she flattered herself that she combined fiction with 
history, and art with reality. " A wise man," she thought, " never per- 
mitted himself to invent things that could not be believed. The true 
art of falsehood is to resemble, the truth." There is a conversation in 
Clelie where the " way to invent a fable," and the writing of romances 
is discussed. Mdlle. de Scudery nearly preaches observation of nature. 
She puts into the mouth of the poet Anacreon almost as good rules of 
rhetoric as could be found in Quintilian. It is a pity that she did not put 
them more into practice. At the present time it would be impossible 
to speak of Mdlle. de Scudery's romances, and to analyse them, without 
calumniating her, so ridiculous would she appear. We should impute 
to her alone what was the caprice of the time. To appreciate her ro- 
mances properly as such, we should be obliged to go back to the models 
she set herself, and write the history of a whole branch of literature. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 353 

What strikes us about her at first sight is, that she takes all the people 
of her acquaintance and circle, travesties them as Romans, Greeks, 
Persians, Carthaginians. The principal events play much the same 
part as is assigned them in history, but the characters are made to talk 
and think as she knew them in the Marais. 

What is remarkable and really of worth in Mdlle. de Scudery's ro- 
mances are the Conversations, for which she had a particular talent, a 
true vocation. Later, when her romances were out of fashion, she made 
extracts from these conversations in little volumes, which appeared suc- 
cessively to the number of ten (she scarcely ever did anything except in 
ten volumes.) 

She treats in the same way every imaginable subject; she gives us a 
short complete treatise, often too complete, in which she combines with 
the historical examples she had collected, the anecdotes she gathered 
from the society of her time. She analyses everything, she dissertates 
on everything, on perfumes, pleasures, desires, moral characteristics and 
virtues; once indeed her observations on the colour of the wings and on 
the flight of butterflies are almost those of a physicist or a naturalist. 
She conjectures, refines, symbolises; she seeks and gives reasons for 
everything. Never has more use been made of the word because. There 
are times when she is a grammarian, an academician, when she discusses 
the synonomy of words, and carefully distinguishes their acceptations; 
how joy and enjoyment differ; whether magnificence is not an heroic and 
regal quality rather than a virtue, for magnificence is only becoming to 
a few persons, while virtues are becoming to everybody; how magnanimity 
comprises more things than generosity, which has usually narrower 
limits, so that we may sometimes be very generous without being truly 
magnanimous. There are short essays which she names most charmingly, 
such as "On Ennui without a Cause." In some respects, in the Con- 
versations, Mdlle. de Scudery proves herself the Nicole of women, with 
more refinement perhaps, but with a foundation of pedantry and in- 
flexibility that the clever theologian did not possess. And then Nicole 
ends everything by God and the consideration of the supreme end, while 
Mdlle. de Scudery invariably finishes by the praises and apotheosis of 
the King; therein she puts a particular skill and industry noticed by Bayle, 
but which is all the same slightly displeasing. 

In fact, the estimable lady, long ill-treated by fortune, early accus- 
tomed herself to pay compliments which might be useful to her. A 
certain amount of tact was at the bottom of all her bad taste. No one 



354 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

has combined more insipid praise with a mania for redressing the little 
faults of the society round her. What would you have? it was necessary 
to her to sell her books, and see them placed under illustrious patronage. 
And then to describe her friends and acquaintances at length, their town 
houses and their country houses, served, while flattering them, to fill 
pages and enlarge the volume. Sapho was not above such little methods 
of her craft. "Truly," said Tallemant, "she wants to leave no stone 
unturned. When I think seriously of it, I forgive her." She liked such 
positive proofs as little presents, favours, pensions, to be added to the 
consideration that never failed her. It somewhat contributed to lower 
the moralist in her, and to limit her view to the narrow circle of the 
society of the time. 

In some places, however, we believe we recognise a firm and almost 
vigorous mind, a mind that approaches lofty subjects with critical acute- 
ness, and understands their different aspects; and while always submitting 
to received opinions, is, above all, determined by considerations of pro- 
priety. 

Mdlle. de Scudery was approaching sixty years of age when Boileau 
appeared and began, in his early Satires (1665), to ridicule the long 
romances, and to regard an admiration for Cyrus as only permissible to 
country squires. The war boldly declared by Boileau against a false 
style in literature that had had its day, and only survived through super- 
stition, struck it a mortal blow, and from that time Mdlle. de Scudery 
was for the new generation merely an antiquated author out of date. 
Madame de la Fayette finished the work of reducing Mdlle. de Scudery 
to the rank of a venerable antique by publishing her own two romances 
of Zaide and the Princes se de Cleves, where she let it be seen how concise, 
natural, and refined it was possible to be. 

In 1 67 1 the French Academy awarded, for the first time, the prize for 
eloquence founded by Balzac. The prize was at first awarded for a sort 
of treatise or sermon on a Christian virtue. The first subject, fixed by 
Balzac himself, was "Praise and Glory." Mdlle. de Scudery wrote an 
essay and gained the prize, to the great applause of all who remained of 
the old academicians of Richelieu's time. The Muse, who with the 
greatest ease carried off the first crown and led the procession of future 
laureates, was then sixty-four years old. 

She continued to grow old and to outlive her fame, deprived of reputa- 
tion in the outer world, but still enjoying glory in private, within the 
closed doors of her own room. Her merit and her estimable qualities 
gained her a little court of friends, who spoke of her as " the first woman 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 355 

in the world," and "the wonder of the age of Louis the Great." When 
she died, June 2, 1701, the Journal des Savants of the following month 
(July 11) recorded those magnificent eulogies. 

Hippolyte Taine (1828-1893) was another of the critics 
whom this century developed in good number and quality. 
Taine's " History of English Literature'' is valuable for 
judgments made without bias and lacking only where it is 
impossible for a man of different race to understand the 
English " genius." He was stirred by the excitements of 
1870 to the writing of history to which he also applied his 
trained critical faculty. 

* Now appeared the English romantic school, closely resembling the 
French in its doctrines, origin, and alliances, in the truths which it dis- 
covered, the exaggerations it committed, and the scandal it excited. . . 

In this confusion of labours two great ideas are distinguished: the first 
producing historical poetry, the second philosophical; the one especially 
manifest in Southey and Walter Scott, the other in Wordsworth and 
Shelley; both European, and displayed with equal brilliancy in France 
by Hugo, Lamartine, and Musset; with greater brilliancy in Germany 
by Goethe, Schiller, Ruckert, and Heine; both so profound, that none 
of their representatives, except Goethe, divined their scope; and hardly 
now, after more than half a century, can we define their nature, so as to 
forecast their results. 

The first consists in saying, or rather foreboding, that our ideal is not 
the ideal; it is one ideal but there are others. The barbarian, the feudal 
man, the cavalier of the Renaissance, the Mussulman, the Indian, each 
age and each race has conceived its beauty, which was a beauty. Let 
us enjoy it, and for this purpose put ourselves in the place of the dis- 
coverers; altogether; for it will not suffice to represent, like the previous 
novelists and dramatists, modern and national manners under old and 
foreign names; let us paint the sentiments of other ages and other races 
with their own features, however different these features may be from 
our own, and however unpleasing to our taste. Let us show our charac- 
ter as he was, grotesque or not, with his costume and speech: let him be 
fierce and superstitious if he was so; let us dash the barbarian with blood, 
and load the covenanter with his bundle of biblical texts. Then one by 

* Translated by H. Van Laun. 



356 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

one on the literary stage men saw the vanished or distant civilisations 
return: first the middle age and the Renaissance; then Arabia, Hindostan, 
and Persia; then the classical age, and the eighteenth century itself; and 
the historic taste becomes so eager, that from literature the contagion 
spread to other arts. The theatre changed its conventional costumes 
and decorations into true ones. Architecture built Roman villas in our 
northern climates, and feudal towers amidst our modern security. Paint- 
ers travelled to imitate local colouring, and studied to reproduce moral 
colouring. Every one became a tourist and an archaeologist; the human 
mind, quitting its individual sentiments to adopt sentiments really felt, 
and finally all possible sentiments, found its pattern in the great Goethe, 
who by his Tasso, Iphigenia, Divan, his second part of Faust, became a 
citizen of all nations and a contemporary of all ages, seemed to live at 
pleasure at every point of time and place, and gave an idea of universal 
mind. Yet this literature, as it approached perfection, approached its 
limit, and was only developed in order to die. Men did comprehend 
at last that attempted resurrections are always incomplete, that every 
imitation is only an imitation, that the modern accent infallibly pene- 
trates the words which we lend to antique characters, that every picture 
of manners must be indigenous and contemporaneous, and that archaic 
literature is a false kind. They saw at last that it is in the writers of 
the past that we must seek the portraiture of the past; that there are 
no Greek tragedies but the Greek tragedies; that the concocted novel 
must give place to authentic memoirs, as the fabricated ballad to the 
spontaneous; in short, that historical literature must vanish and become 
transformed into criticism and history, that is, into exposition and com- 
mentary of documents. 

In the excitements attendant on the Franco-Prussian 
struggle and the establishment of the Republic Leon Gam- 
betta (1838-1882) showed powerful oratorical ability. 

The theater in France never fails to be an exponent of the 
times and the drama produced after 1850 is illustrative of 
this generally conceded truth. Emile Augier (1820-1889) 
followed Scribe and showed the realistic influence in his 
analysis of the faults and foibles of the bourgeois. Alex- 
andre Dumas the younger, (1824-1895), painted with a 
heavier brush the sins not so much of individuals as of so- 
ciety, especially in its attitude toward problems arising from 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 357 

the relations of the sexes. Even more than Augier and Dumas 
the younger has Victorien Sardou (1831-1908) provided 
the theater of other nations with plots and ideas for incidents 
and situations and above all with standards for the details of 
dramatic technique. His plays have had a joyous popu- 
larity. They include various forms of comedy, possibly the 
best being that based on some historical happening. 

All three of these playwrights are realists. Naturalism is 
too realistic for the stage; visualization is a degree beyond 
its audacity. In verse, however, an intellectual naturalism 
appeared with Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) who 
wrote with exquisite though misplaced art about death and 
physical decay, who solaced an artificial weariness by artificial 
stimulation, and who looked upon himself and his experiences, 
however lurid, with detached and languid interest as "good 
copy." The worst elements of the English aesthetic school 
of the early ? 8os whose simpler sillinesses .Gilbert and Sullivan 
satirized in " Patience" had their roots in admiration of 
Baudelaire, and in France the Decadents, with inflamed 
imagination and atrophied conscience, honestly earned their 
debased name as his successors. The lingering sweetness of 
Baudelaire's verse and its possibilities, all too grossly per- 
verted, are shown in this poem. 

CONTEMPLATION 

(Translated by F. P. Sturm. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, 
The eve is thine which even now drops down, 
To carry peace or care to human will, 
And in a misty veil enfolds the town. 

While the vile mortals of the multitude, 
By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, 
Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood — 
Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone 



358 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, 
In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; 
And from the water, smiling through her tears, 
Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; 
And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, 
List, my grief, the gentle steps of Night. 

Francois Copp£e (184 2-1 908), dramatist and poet, was a 
realist pure and simple, with charming poems of simple, 
country life. Not so Paul Verlaine (1 844-1 896), his con- 
temporary, who was a true disciple of Baudelaire, a real 
genius, but distorted by a neurotic temperament and by the 
physical reaction of a body harassed by the degenerating 
power of absinthe. At first a friend of the Parnassians who 
admired his ability, he grew far away from their mental pre- 
cisions in his own insistence upon grief and despair and sin 
and his own mental enjoyment of it. The poems below show 
Verlaine in the sadness with which he describes Autumn's 
decay and in the malice of his comparison of the 

WOMAN AND THE CAT 

(Translated by Ashmore Wingate. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

O she was playing with her cat, 
And it was wonderful to see 
The hand so white, the paw so white, 
Meet in the dusk full shadowy. 

The cat did hide, right treacherous, 
Beneath her gloves of jet-black sheen 
Her deadly, deadly agate points, 
As razor clear, as razor keen. 

And tender too the other grew 

Her lance, her lance she hid from view. 

But busy was the devil there, 
The boudoir, where so sonorous 
Her airy laugh did ring, was lit 
By four bright stars of phosphorus. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 359 

SONG OF AUTUMN 

(Translated by Ashmore Wingate. Courtesy of the Walter Scott Publishing Company) 

The wailing note 
That long doth float 

From Autumn's bow, 
Doth wound my heart 
With no quick smart, 

But dull and slow. 

In breathless pain, 
I hear again 

The hour ring deep. 
I call once more 
The days of yore, 

And then I weep. 

I drift afar 

On winds which bear 

My soul in grief. 
Their evil force 
Deflects its course, 

Like a dead leaf. 

Beside decadence there have been other literary moods 
since 1880, the result of a profound mental restlessness suc- 
ceeding, with the quieter days of the Republic, the political 
agitations of the '70s, and of an equally profound curiosity. 
The chief of these moods is symbolism, a reaction into vague 
rhetoric from the plain speaking of decadence. The move- 
ment brought only dimness to the brilliance of French 
letters. 

Drama of real value has been of late combined with poetry 
of worth in the plays of Edmond Rostand (1868- ) 
and of Maurice Maeterlinck (1862- ). The latter, 
however, is a Belgian, so that strictly his work is not included 
in the body of French literature, though he writes in French. 
Rostand struck a note of originality and charm in " Cyrano 
de Bergerac," a drama of action, full of humor and pathos, 



360 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

expressed in free and adequate verse. Of his succeeding 
plays "L'Aiglon" was rather heavily pathetic, and "Chan- 
ticler" a daring revival of mediaeval method which uttered 
wisdom through the mouths of birds and beasts, was too full 
of subtle political and literary localisms to be readily en- 
joyed "by the general." 

A natural progression of the realistic novel was its growth 
on the psychological side as the naturalistic aspects fell 
away from their own grossness. Its chief employers were 
Paul Bourget (1852- ) and Edouard Rod. Bourget's 
work is too analytical of trifles to be powerful, but he never- 
theless is liked by the class of people whom he describes. 
His travels are written with good sense and good temper but, 
if his comments on other countries are like those on America, 
they show more observation than insight. His notes on 
American humorous journalism are entertaining. 

I have just looked over a very great number of humorous journals 
which my New York friends pointed out to me as the best. Americans 
are wild over these publications. They are displayed in all the hotel 
halls. They are distributed in all the railroad cars. They encumber 
the tables at the Clubs. Without exaggerating the importance of these 
illustrated treatises one must recognize in them everywhere a certain 
documentary value. They characterize the humor of the race and the 
jesting they take pleasure in. Moreover you will meet in them a thou- 
sand details of manners noted in a lively way which this exaggeration 
makes more noticeable to the traveller. In running through a collection 
of these medleys, one foremost observation must be noted; the absence 
of allusions to marital misadventure. Don't suppose, however, that 
these caricatures profess any too great respect in regard to marriage; 
but though they see its faults, it is above all from a monetary standpoint 
as is suitable in the country of the almighty dollar. Family life is too 
dear and men are put to too much trouble. Such is their principal 
grief. . . . 

. . . . "Your men work too hard in America," said a young 
foreign count to a young girl. — "Yes," she replies, "they have to sup- 
port their titled relatives." When it is not the father who is over- 
whelmed with trouble it is the husband. Imagine on Christmas eve a 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 361 

certain Popleigh returning from his office. He is aged before his time, 
thin and bent. His arms full of presents reveal his numerous family. 
A gentleman snug in comfortable furs, a cigar in his mouth, meets him 
and looks at him ironically. "It is Mr. Singleton," says the legend 
simply, "who was a suitor for the hand of the present Mrs. Pop- 
leigh." . . . As to the happiness of the wife, she herself scarcely 
expects it. "Yes," replies a fiancee, her eyes upraised. "I am happy. 
At least, I suppose so. But there's one great trouble: once married I 
shall no longer be able to flirt." 

This jest is but a commentary on a very real fact which I shall at- 
tempt to explain, the social sovereignty of the young girl in the United 
States. A thousand little signs would scarcely indicate this sovereignty 
to the traveller until he finds testimony in these caricatures. . . . 
Listen to the conversation that the artist gives these admirable persons 
and you will be edified with their common sense. Here is a girl who is 
walking in the country with a sweetheart who is saying to her bitterly: 
"If I were rich, you would marry me at once!" "Ah! George, George," 
says she, "the devotion you show me breaks my heart." "What do 
you mean by that!" "That you have often praised my beauty but 
until now I did not know how much you appreciated my good sense." 
They know well, do these positive daughters of still more positive men 
that marriage is an association where their partner will demand that 
they, too, bring money — lots of money. . . . Moreover the fine 
young men, companions and accomplices in the flirtations of these 
pretty children do not conceal from them their care for this interest. — 
"Had I been poor, would you have loved me?" asks one of them of a 
young man. of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, who replies 
while pressing her to his heart: "Ah! darling, I should not have known 
you." And you must not be indignant at seeing money ceaselessly 
mingled in affairs of the heart; the heart is itself so little mingled in it! 
The caricaturist takes care to warn you of it; these engagements which 
are tied and untied with such ease do not make any mark on the souls 
of the two elegant fashionable dolls, the young man and young woman 
of the world. . . . She herself does not attach a very deep meaning 
to engagements, if we believe this other dialogue between two young 
girls who are exchanging confidences: "They told me you were in love 
with him?" asks one. "No, indeed," replies the other energetically, 
"it is not so serious as that. I was only engaged to him." . . . Lots 
of fun , that is the best summing up of all the caricatures. Nothing re- 
sembles less the bitter and poignant acidity of our humorists. These 
jokes about young girls, which might easily be cruel, maintain a jovial 



362 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

good humor. It is the same for those on the subject of the lower classes, 
notably the tramps, negroes, and Irish, those inevitable protagonists of 
every true Yankee farce. Certainly misery is more severe in the United 
States than elsewhere, under a climate so hard in winter, so burning in 
summer and in the midst of such crazing competition. Listen to this 
vagabond whom a piece of money given by a generous passerby per- 
mitted to enter a bar. He is before the free lunch table: "Haven't you 
eaten enough?" cries the proprietor startled at seeing the ham, salted 
fish, buttered bread and fried oysters disappear into the gulf of his rag- 
covered stomach. "Do I look like a man who has eaten enough?" 
replied the tramp snickering. This impertinent pleasantry gives the 
tone of the responses attributed by the caricaturist to these ramblers. 

Nor does the caricaturist treat of the disagreeable and miserable 
traits of the negro. He is vastly amused by his vanity and familiarity. 
He pictures one, for instance, who goes to his master's house wearing 
a checked pair of trousers of the same stuff as his master's waistcoat. 
The latter says: "I told you, Tom, not to wear those pantaloons that I 
gave you during the week when I am wearing the rest of the suit." 
And Tom replies: "Why, Boss? Are you afraid that we'll be taken for 
twins?" It is the same way with the terrible Irish, so bursting with 
poetry and brutality, with patriotic ardor and vindictive rage, with 
eloquence and drunkenness, with the spirit of enterprise and of disorder. 
It is only the drunkenness and disorder that the caricatures display. 
Now they ridicule an Irish servant saying in her brogue to the immigra- 
tion inspector that she is a French nurse: "Oi'm a Frinch nurse." . . . 
Policemen preside over this carnival of tramps, negroes, and Irish, 
Irish themselves, drinking deep and striking hard with "Take that" 
accompanied by a crack on the head. Not a tinge of bitterness corrupts 
this joviality. . . . Clearly they are good-humored people, very 
lucid, very positive, writing and drawing for readers who are lucid, 
positive and good-humored. . . . The American belongs to a world 
that is too active, too much in a hurry, and in certain respects too 
healthy for poisonous irony to be met there. 

It is interesting to compare with this innocent and indulgent gaiety 
of the caricature of manners the violence of political caricatures. These 
same artists who are simple, careless jesters about the absurdities or the 
vices of daily life, when it is a question of party, manifest a frenzy of 
hatred almost unsurpassable. The appointment of an ambassador 
who does not suit them, the adoption of a bill against which they are 
making a campaign, or the rejection of a bill which they are supporting, 
a hostile candidacy, a high-sounding speech, give them opportunity for 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 363 

extravagant charges whose severity of attack contrasts in the most 
unexpected fashion with the good humor of the sketches of manners. 
You are suddenly aware of calumny and its bitterness, anger and its 
insults. From amused and easy fancy you fall into low and brutal at- 
tack — an attack with no wit about it, which does not hesitate at the 
most grossly insulting personal allusion. It seems to me that both 
phenomena are logical and that it agrees with what may be seen every- 
where as peculiar to the American. In the ordinary rurfof existence he 
is a good fellow, amiable, open, easy-going. As soon as you meet him 
in business you find him as harsh and as energetic in defense of his in- 
terests and in the conquest of yours as you found him previously affable 
and generous. A minute ago he was amusing himself; now he is fighting. 
Politics, it appears, is the most important business of all in this country 
where every triumph of a party puts at its disposal all the positions and 
public appointments. It is a matter which interests not a few ambitious 
men, but an enormous number of individuals enrolled under the re- 
publican or the democratic banner. Their antipathies must be satisfied, 
their enthusiasm stirred, their passions satisfied. . . . They ex- 
clude wit by virtue of the celebrated quip of Talleyrand's, " Everything 
that is exaggerated is insignificant." That is why Americans have suc- 
ceeded in the caricature of manners which they make light and without 
hidden meaning, and why their political caricature is, without excep- 
tion, mediocre. 

Rod, who came to America a few years ago to lecture has 
a refinement of moral tone that is pleasant to encounter. 

Quite apart from any other novelists is Pierre Loti, a 
naval officer whose real name is Julian Viaud (1850- ). 
He has found his place in romances whose charm lies not so 
much in the movement of the story as in its setting among 
scenes which the author knew well and described with felicity. 
He has, moreover, a capacity for pathos which makes the 
waiting girl of the " Iceland Fisherman" and the deserted 
little Japanese wife, " Madame Chrysanthemum" beloved 
and lamented. 

Another novelist, who is poet and critic as well, is Anatole 
Thibault (1844- ) whose pen name is Anatole France. 
He belonged to the Parnassian group. His novels show a 



364 THE SPIRIT OF FRENCH LETTERS 

wide range of descriptive power, from analysis of a simple 
childlike nature to the complexities of ancient religious en- 
thusiasms and the subtleties of modern fashionable society. 
As a critic France is more agreeable than profound, opposing 
the deeper methods of Ferdinand Bruneti^re (1 849-1 907) 
who objected with consistency and firmness to the super- 
ficiality of a criticism based on emotion rather than law, and 
to the low basis and consequent futility of literary forms 
where art supersedes morality. Brunetiere worked with 
enthusiasm a general field of which Pelissier has developed a 
section, the literature of the nineteenth century, with ad- 
mirable sanity. 

Emile Faguet, a scholarly critic of great ability, though 
given to the excusable fault of overpraising French achieve- 
ment, has summed up the achievements of the nineteenth 
century in the paragraphs which follow: 

* The nineteenth century is, together with the seventeenth, the great- 
est literary period which France has seen. Between these two ages there 
are endless points of resemblance, notwithstanding their many differ- 
ences. They are, both of them, centuries great in philosophy, in poetry, 
and, possibly for that reason, both of them great religious centuries — 
religious in the sense that religious questions have been considered by 
both to be of the first importance and have been investigated and ex- 
plored by both in every possible direction — and both centuries reached 
the highest summits of thought and of art. . . . These are the two 
centuries which brought to France the greatest honour and gave her the 
supremacy among nations. 

Considered by itself, the nineteenth century in France is singularly 
great by reason of what it revived and what it created. 

It revived poetry in the grand style, which had been almost forgotten 
and misunderstood for more than a hundred years. It revived eloquence, 
which, though it had actually made its reappearance in Rousseau and 
one or two of the revolutionary orators, has only since the year 1815 
been practised by any considerable number of men. It revived comedy 
on a large scale. . . . 

* Courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons. 



THE CENTURY OF INVENTIONS-THE NINETEENTH 365 

The nineteenth century actually created that personal poetry in which 
the intimate emotions of the heart find expansion, in which we feel the 
pulsation of the heart of human nature itself and come into immediate 
contact with it. . . . We also owe to the nineteenth century — I 
will not say historic drama (for this is but another name for tragedy, 
differing from it purely in form), but certainly historic comedy, which 
had been but vaguely sketched in some tragi-comedies of the seven- 
teenth century. ... In creating the drama of middle-class life the 
eighteenth century had begun the completion of the framework neces- 
sary for the drama; in creating historic comedy the nineteenth century 
put the final touches. 

The nineteenth century will also be admitted to have practically 
created criticism, which up to that time had rather attempted than 
achieved existence. . . . 

It is therefore evident that the literary horizon has been enlarged 
rather than contracted during the nineteenth century, and this is true 
from almost any point of view. There is every reason to feel hopeful. 
The future of the nation is important in a different way from the future 
of literature, but literature has been through all the ages so considerable 
an element in the greatness of France that we must rejoice to find no 
signs of its decline among us. 



CHAPTER X 

TODAY 

A list of noteworthy French writers of the moment reads 
very much like any similar list of 1900 except that it is 
scantier. Death has mowed the ranks relentlessly in the last 
half-dozen years, and the aspirants for the vacant places are 
self -nominated rather than called by popular acclaim. It will 
require another decade to prove which of these volunteers 
will have won his shoulder straps. 

At the moment, too, there seem to be no new impulses, 
unless it is a groping toward a rather self-conscious idealism. 
The chief political events of the decade have been the Moroc- 
can dispute with Germany and the dispersal of the religious 
orders. The former made no impress on letters; the latter 
will not show in any change of educational results until the 
present generation of young people steps into the world of 
affairs. Even then it is not likely that literature will be af- 
fected, for the religious bodies concerned themselves chiefly 
with the training of young girls and of small children. It is 
possible that the establishment of these teachers in remote 
countries where they are building up missions will have more 
effect in those places than their withdrawal from France will 
have at home. France's educational influence, indeed, is 
strong in many countries today as was her influence on man- 
ners throughout the Europe of Louis XIV's time. 

The reaction against religion is regarded as being political 
rather than social, and the tone of literature seems to bear 
out this assertion. 

Of the isms that ended the nineteenth century the survivor 

366 



TODAY 367 

is the one most immediately touching society — the feminist 
movement corresponding to the woman suffrage movement 
in other countries. Marcel Prevost is still the chief exponent 
of feminism. 

It is characteristic of the trend of interest of the time that 
literature reflects the general attention that is given to one 
form or another of science. It may be mental science — for 
the French combine emotionalism with an intellectual curi- 
osity about it which makes them take a " cerebral" delight 
in psychology. It may be physical science — for the nation 
is developing every aspect of aviation now as it worked out 
automobile problems ten years ago. The conquest of a new 
element is not only broadening the imaginative scope, but 
is adding new material to be written about and enlarging and 
enriching the vocabulary. The scientific interest appears not 
to be antagonistic to the prevalent idealism, but rather to be 
regarded as a sort of introductory materialization of the ideal. 

Whether the output of the next ten years will show any 
continuity with the admirable work of the still writing sur- 
vivors of the critics and novelists and poets of the splendid 
nineteenth century, or whether it will develop a new type 
and a new mode of expression is a matter of interest to every 
student of the spirit of French letters. 



INDEX 



Abelard, 53 
About, Edmond, 344 
Academy, French, 134 
Agnes of Navarre, 25 
Alembert, Jean-le-Rond d', 266 
American Revolutionists, 271 
Amyot, Jacques, 107 
Anne of Austria, 126 
Anne of England, 132, 133 
Ariosto, 22 
Aristotle, 205 
Arnauld, Antoine, 167 
Arouet, Francois Marie, 237 
Aucassin and Nicolete, 29-38, 50 
Augier, Emile, 356, 357 
Augustus, Philip, 44, 53, 63 

B 

Bacon, 133, 252 
Bacon, Roger, 53 
Baif, Antoine de, no 
Balzac, Jean Guez de, 177 
Balzac, Honore de, 335 
Banville, Theodore de, 339 
Basselin, 79 
Bastille, 271 

Baudelaire, Charles, 357 
Bavaria, Isabel of, 71 
Bayle, Pierre, 265 
Beaumarchais, 243 
Beiges, Le Maire de, 107 
Bellay, Joachim du, 28, no, 113 



Belleau, Remi, no, 114 
Benserade, Isaac de, 152, 153 
Beranger, Pierre Jean de, 318, 320, 

322 
Bergerac, Cyrano de, 150 
Beyle, Henri, 331 
"Bibles," 46 
Black Prince, 65 
Boccaccio, 40 
Boileau-Despreaus, Nicholas, 154, 

187 
Boniface, Pope, 64 
Born, Bertrand de, 19 
Bourdaloue, Louis, 173, 182, 267 
Bourget, Paul, 360 
Bossuet, Jacques Benigne, 172 
Brun, Ecouchard Le, 274 
Brunetiere, Ferdinand, 364 
Bruyere, Jean de La, 180 
Bryce, Ambassador, 318 
Buffon, 247 
Bunyan, 133 
Byron, 281, 288 



Caesar, 1 

Calprenede, La, 160, 182 
Calvin, John, 87, 88, 89, 93 
Capet, Hugh, 4, 44 
Caxton, 74 
Chansons de Geste, 6 
Chapman, 133 
Charlemagne, 2, 3, 4, 63 
Charles, 2, 4 



369 



37° 



INDEX 



Charles I, 126 

Charles II, 133 

Charles IV, 64 

Charles V, 71, 86 

Charles VI, 70 

Charles VII, 65, 73 

Charles VIII, 74, 82 

Charles IX, 88, 117 

Charles X, 278 

Charles, Duke of Orleans, 77, 79, 

80 
Charles the Fat, 4 
Chartier, Alain, 75, 77 
Chateaubriand, 279, 281, 283, 284, 

Chatrian, 344 

Chaucer, 40, 65, 71, 190 

Chenier, Andre, 272, 273 

Chrestien de Troyes, 7 

Classicists, 299 

Colbert, 130 

Commynes, Philippe de, 82, 89 

Comte, 171 

"Conde, Great," 163 

Condorcet, 270 

Congreve, 133 

Coppee, Francois, 358 

Corneille, 134, 160, 187, 200, 202, 

204, 206, 299 
Cot, P. A., 279 
Courts of Love, 22 
Cousin, 318 
Crebillons, 235, 236 
Crusades, 21, 52, 53, 57 

D 

Daguerre, 326 
Daniel, Arnaud, 22, 29 
Dante, 19, 22 
Danton, 274 
Dare, Jeanne, 65 



Daudet, Alphonse, 344 
Decadents, 357 
Deffand, Marquise du, 246 
Delavigne, Casimir, 323 
Dejoinville. 82 
Descartes, R6ne, 171 
Deschamps, Eustache, 71, 72 
Desperiers, Bonaventure, 106 
Desportes, 121 
Destouches, 235 
Diaz, 73 

Diderot, Denis, 235, 265 
Dorat, Jean, no 
Dryden, 133 

Dudevant, Madame, 324 
Dumas, Alexander, 312 
Dumas, Alexandre, 356 
Duns Scotus, 53 



Edward III (of England), 64, 66 
Eleanor, 19 
Elizabeth, Queen, in 
Enclos, Ninon de 1', 164 
Encyclopedia, 265, 267 
Erckmann, 344 
Espinasse, Julie de 1', 246 
Evelyn, 133 



Fabliau, 39, 45 

Faguet, Emile, 364 

Fayette, Madame de la, 154, 164 

F6nelon, 255 

Flaubert, Gustave, 341, 342 

Floral Games, 22 

Fontaine, Jean de la, 157, 163, 187 

Fontenelle, 180 

Fouquet, 157, 163, 182 

France, Anatole, 363 

France, lie de, 3 



INDEX 



371 



Francis I, 86, 88, 89, 93, 101, 107 James II, 133 



Francis II, 88, 117 

Franklin, 253 

Franks, 1 

Froissart, 26, 66, 69, 70, 71, 82 

Fronde, 127 



Galvani, 253 

Gambetta, Leon, 356 

Gaul, 1 

Gautier, Theophile, 299, 326 

Gazette de France, 134 

Gilbert, 357 

Goethe, 281 

Goncourt, Edmond and Jules de, 

343 
Gresset, Jean-Baptiste-Louis, 235 
Grignan, Marquis de, 182 
Gringore, Pierre, 81, 195 
Guizot, Francois Pierre Guillaume, 

3i4, 3i5 
Gutenberg, 74 

H 

Halle, Adam de la, 16, 189 

Heloise, 53 

Henrietta Maria, 126 

Henry II, 19, 88 

Henry III, 88, 117 

Henry IV (of Navarre), 89, 100, 

117, 119, 120, 124, 125, 126 
Herrick, 133 

Hopital, Michel de 1', 88, 116 
Horace, 200 

Hugo, Victor, 284, 298-312 
Humanist, 87, 89 
Hundred Years War, 65, 72 



James I, 126 



Jodelle, Etienne, no, 113 
John, King, 65, 66 
Joinville, De, 57, 58 



Kant, 171 

Kock, Paul de, 344 



Lacordaire, 318 
LaFontaine, 39, 40, 129 - 
Lamartine, Alphonse de, 284, 288, 

3i5 
Lamennais, 318 
Language, French, 1-3 
Langue d'oc, 2 
Langue d'oil, 3 
Laon, 4 

Law, John, 226 
"legacies," 46 
Leibnitz, 171, 252 
Linnaeus, 253 
Lisle, Leconte de, 338 
Lisle, Rouget de, 275 
Long, Gautier Le, 39 
Longueville, Madame de, 163 
Lorris, Guillaume de, 61, 62 
Lothair, 2, 4 
Loti, Pierre, 363 
Louis, 74 

Louis IX, 44, 57, 63 
Louis XI, 73, 75, 82 
Louis XII, 77 
Louis XIII, 125, 126 
Louis XIV, 126, 129, 130, 132, 157, 

163, 167, 226, 255 
Louis XV, 178, 226, 241, 253, 255, 

271 
Louis XVI, 126, 268 
Louis XVIII, 278 



372 



INDEX 



Louis the German, 2, 4 
Louvois, 131 
Lovelace, 133 
Luther, Martin, 87 

M 

Macaulay, 89 

Machault, Guillaume de, 24 
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 359 
Maintenon, Madame de, 154, 163, 

179 
Maistre, Joseph, 317 
Maistre, Xavier, 317, 332 
Malebranche, 171 
Malherbe, Francois de, 122, 123, 

152 
Malot, Hector, 344 
Margaret of Scotland, 75 
Marie of France, 46 
Marivaux, 232 
Marlborough, Duke of, 132 
Marmontel, Jean Francois, 267 
Marot, Clement, 89, 107, no, 232 
Martel, Charles, 3 
Mary, Queen of Scots, 88, in, 126 
Massillon, Jean Baptiste, 175, 267 
Maupassant, Guy de, 344, 345 
Mazarin, 126, 127, 129, 131, 151, 

226 
Medici, Catharine de, 88, 116, 117 
Medici, Marie de, 125 
Merimee, Prosper, 332 
Mendes, Catulle, 340 
Meung, Jean de, 61, 62, 70 
Michelet, Jules, 313, 314 
Milton, 133 
Mirabeau, 274 
"miracles," 189 
Mistral, Frederic, 287 
Moliere, 40, 135, 160, 187 
Montalembert, 318 



Montaigne, 87, 88, 89, 94, 100 
Montesquieu, 252, 255, 256, 258 
"moralities," 189 
Montpensier, Mademoiselle de, 

154 
Montreuil, De, 182 
Mothe-Fenelon, Francois de la, 

174 
Musset, Alfred de, 284, 289, 290, 

298, 334 
"mysteries," 189 

N 
Nadaud, Gustave, 324 
Nantes, Edict of, 89, 125, 132 
Napoleon, 278, 311, 316 
Napoleon III, 312, 337 
National Constituent Assembly, 

271 
Navarre, Marguerite of, 117, 119 
Necker, Madame, 247, 271, 279 
Nesle, Blondel de, 18, 19 
Newton, 252 

O 

Ohnet, Georges, 344 
Orange, William of, 132, 133 
Orleans, Philip, of, 226 
Ovid, 61 



Palissy, 116 
Paris, 4 

"Parnassians," 337, 358 
Pascal, Blaise, 167, 171 
Pathelin, Lawyer, 195-199 
Pelissier, 364 
Pepys, 133 
Pestalozzi, 261 
Petrarch, 22 
Peyrols, 21 



INDEX 



373 



Philip, 63 

Philip the Fair, 64 

Philippe, Louis, 278, 311 

Pierre, Bernardin de St., 278 

Piron, Alexis, 235 

Pisan, Christine de, 70, 71 

Pleiade, 200 

Port Royal, 167, 170 

Prevost, Abbe, 234, 243, 367 

Proudhon, 318 

R 

Rabelais, 87, 89, 90 

Racan, 123 

Racine, 160, 187, 170 

Raleigh, 133 

Rambouillet, Angelique de, 164, 

182 
Rambouillet, Hotel de, 134, 152, 

246 
Raoul, Comte de Soissone, 16 
Realism, 326 
Reformation, 87, 89, 195 
Regnier, Mathurin, 121, 122 
Renaissance, 86, 87, 89, 195 
Renan, Ernest, 335, 336 
Renard the Fox, 59, 50-52 
Retz, Cardinal de, 127, 178 
Revolution, French, 275 
Richard the Lion Hearted, 17, 18, 

19, 20, 21 
Richelieu, 125, 126, 133, 206 
Robert II, Count of Artois, 16 
Rochefoucauld, Francois de la, 168, 

178 
Rod, Edouard, 360, 363 
Roland, 247 
Roland, Madame, 247 
Roland, Song of, 7-13 
Rollo the Northman, 4 
Romance Language, 2 



Romanticism, 278, 289, 299, 314, 

325, 338 
Ronsard, Pierre, 28, 89, no, in 
Rose, Romance of the, 61, 62, 70, 

108 
Rostand, Edmond, 150, 359 
Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, 228 
Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 244, 252, 

256, 259, 260, 261, 265, 266, 270, 

278 
Rutebeuf, 45, 189 



Sage, Alain-Rene Le, 229, 232 
St. Louis, 45 ? 53 ? 63 
St. Simon, 178, 227 
Sainte-Beuve, Charles Augustin, 

204, 349 
Saint-Gelais, Mellin de, 105 
Saintine, 344 
Sales, Francis de, 100 
Sand, George, 334 
Saracens, 3 

Sardou, Victorien, 357 
Satire Menippee, 119 
Scarron, Paul, 154, 163 
Schiller, 281 
Scott, 281 

Scribe, Eugene, 325, 356 
Scudery, Mademoiselle de, 163, 

164, 178 
Sedaine, Michel Jean, 274 
Segrais, Jean Regnauld de, 153, 

164 
Sevigne", Madame de, 163 
Sevigne, Marquise de, 181 
Shakspere, 40, 133 
Sorbonne, 53, 74 
soties, 195 

Souvestre, Emile, 344 
Spinoza, 171 



374 



INDEX 



Stael-Holstein, Baron de, 279 
Stael, Madame de, 247, 279, 280 
States General, 64, 74, 86, 125, 271 
Stendhal, 331, 334 
Strasburg Oath, 2, 4 
Stuart, Mary, 322 
Suckling, 133 
Sue, Eugene, 244 
Sullivan, 357 
Sully-Prudhomme, 338 
Swift, Dean, 87 
Swinburne, 29, 80 



Taillefer, 7 

Taine, Hippolyte, 355 

Tennyson, 7 

Theuriet, Andr6, 344 

Thibault, Anatole, 363 

Thibaut IV, King of Navarre, 15, 

16 
Thierry, Augustin, 313 
Thiers, Adolphe, 214, 315, 316 
Thyard, Pontus de, no 
Tocqueville, Alexis de, 318 
Tours, 3 

troubadours, 14, 15 
trouv&res, 7, 14, 15 
Turgot, Anne-Robert-Jacques, 

268, 127 
Turoldus, 8 
Tyler, Wat, 65 



U 
University, 53, 74 
Urfe, Honore" d', 160 



Valois, Marguerite of, 101, 102, 

105, 106 
Verlaine, Paul, 358 
Ventadour, Bernard de, 22 
Verne, Jules, 344 
Verse forms, 24-28 
Vaiud, Julian, 363 
Vidal, Pierre, 20 
Vigny, Alfred de, 284, 288, 298 
Villehardouin, 53, 82 
Villemain, Abel, 318 
Villon, 25, 80 
Voiture, Vincent, 152, 153 
Voltaire, 237, 244, 256, 257, 258 

W 

Wace, 7, 49 
Walpole, Horace, 246 
Ward, Mrs. Humphrey, 246 
Werther, 288 
Wycherley, 133 
Wycliffe, 65 



Ysopets," 46 



Zola, fimile, 342 



JUN 28 S912 



..[r'BRARY OF CONGRESS 



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027 249 733 3 



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